SUSFU
by snooky-9093
Summary: After having their cover blown in TARFU, our dynamic spy duo is now back in England. The end of the war in Europe is in sight. So what could possibly go wrong? Chapter 8 reloaded after editing. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

SUSFU

_SITUATION UNCHANGED, STILL F****D UP_

_Part 4 of the Boswell and Garrett chronicles. Reading the previous 3 stories will make this one go down a lot easier. And we are now in the final days before VE Day._

Major Hochstetter's unhealthy obsession with Colonel Robert E. Hogan appeared to end at the time the obsession with saving his neck began. Despite all outward appearances, the major was by all accounts, a first-rate investigator. His keen eye and gut instinct told him what many others preferred to bury in the back of their brainwashed, and what some may call, evil minds. The Third Reich was in its death throes; no one was safe, and those connected with certain nefarious organizations could be in deep trouble. Fortunately, Hochstetter was bright enough to remain in the Ruhr pocket. Although the fighting there was fierce, he knew that the Russians had no way of capturing the area before the lesser of two evils, the British or the Americans, arrived. He decided to take his chances with the GI's, and began the process of melting into the woodwork, so to speak. His last visit to Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg was on April 3rd, a full two weeks before the Americans captured Dusseldorf, and liberated the small Luft Stalag located near Hammelburg.

Fearful of military investigators finding evidence of torture, he ordered all records to be destroyed, and released his remaining staff to their own devices. "The SS are hanging and shooting civilians, deserters and anyone else who they think should continue this fight," he told those who were left. "It's not worth it. Do what you want. I'm out of here!" They all agreed and took off, while Hochstetter grabbed his few remaining personal items. At the last minute, he smirked as he pulled out a large file, filled with information he had gathered on Luft Stalag 13, the Senior POW officer; the American colonel Robert E. Hogan, and certain prisoners. Also in there was a large amount of paperwork detailing information on the local underground and local sabotage activity.

Hochstetter opened up the file and starred grimly at the handsome face that seemed to smirk back at him. He offered a mini salute. "You won this battle Hogan," he said. "But one day, I will prove once and for all that I was right. And when that day comes, I will have the last laugh." He paused. _Even if it's over a pint of beer at one of your American officers' clubs. My country is dead, and soon we will be fighting a mutual enemy. _The major shoved the file into his satchel, and left the building for the last time.

Hochstetter holed up in a relative's home located in a small village that had so far escaped the fighting. His first cousin had not been heard from in several years. The village appeared to be somewhat deserted, with only fanatical Nazi's taking up arms against the inevitable invaders. He slipped into the house when it was dark, and lit some candles for light. Raiding the larder he had stocked with supplies he had stolen from local black market profiteers he had arrested, he sat down and ate. Gazing at the satchel, as he downed the last bit of scotch left in the house, he sighed and retrieved Hogan's file. Behind the colonel's photo was the report he had compiled regarding the failed prisoner swap engineered by General Burkhalter. Glancing at the drawings of the two rogue SS agents, he muttered to himself. "I'll bet my life these two were working with Hogan. But, why?" The drawings had been circulated down south near the border, where the swap initially took place. They found their way into Switzerland, and then from there, into Spain, Portugal, and finally into London, where, at the end of March, they were picked up by one of the few remaining German control agents still operating in the British isles.

The Gestapo major burned anything that would lead to his identity, and prepared to morph into a civilian. However, he couldn't bring himself to burn the files related to his most famous quarry. Fearing the soldiers would commandeer the house, he buried the satchel and its contents, locked the door and waited. As the rumbling grew closer, he gathered his courage and exited.

A jeep carrying several Americans, followed by a platoon, slowly approached the home. The platoon's guns covered the platoon leader, a lieutenant, who hopped out of the jeep, and slowly approached the unarmed Hochstetter. A sergeant, holding a German shepherd on a leash, followed. "Who's in the house?" the lieutenant asked in fluent German.

"No one. I'm the only one here." Hochstetter looked down at the dog. The dog stared back at the major, and then sniffed his pant leg.

The officer motioned for a few of his men, who walked up to the home, and without asking, entered; rifles drawn.

"We have to search." The lieutenant sized up the man standing in front of him. The German was perhaps in his early 40's, and looked well-fed. That aroused his suspicions. He quickly frisked Hochstetter, and then said, "Please come into your home. We have a few questions."

Hochstetter sighed and followed the officer, who motioned to the kitchen table. "Sit down, please. Your papers?"

Hochstetter handed over his forged papers.

"It says you were a charted accountant?" (1)

"Yes. This is my cousin's home. I lived in Berlin, and my office was destroyed. I managed to travel here. It wasn't easy. I had no interest in fighting. I was originally, how do you say it? 4F due to illness. But recently the SS has been drafting anyone they find, old, young, hurt, into the home guard."

The American frowned. "We've lost a lot of people due to your so-called home guard. Fanatics."

Hochstetter shrugged. "I haven't fired a gun at anyone. Just doing my job, and trying to stay alive," he lied.

"Where's your cousin?"

"Missing; eastern front."

The interrogation was interrupted by several young soldiers tasked with searching the house.

"Nothing suspicious in here, Lieutenant."

"Good. Start on the yard, and watch out for mines and other booby-traps. Take the dog."\

Hochstetter felt himself beginning to sweat. He had buried the satchel underneath a rock pile behind the garage. The garage was safe. He had ditched his Gestapo car earlier that week. However, he was afraid if the Americans paid close attention, they may find loose dirt. He was sure he had been careful, and had hidden the burial site well. He cursed his stupidity. A chance for vindication could now spell his doom. _I should have destroyed the evidence._

"Something making you nervous, Herr Mueller?" The lieutenant asked.

"No, sir."

"We're almost done here. We're going to be commandeering…" The lieutenant paused as the dog's barking could be heard. "Stay here with him," he ordered the sergeant stationed outside the kitchen door. The officer hurried outside. "Everything all right?" he yelled, concerned for the safety of the men searching the yard.

"Yes, sir! The yard seems clean, but the dog picked up a scent." The private pointed to the rock pile behind the garage. The dog was wagging its tail and digging furiously; whining in frustration. Several men came over, and began digging with their trench tools, while a few others began moving the rocks. Several moments later, a loud thump could be heard.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" The lieutenant bent down and removed an old, brown, leather satchel. Opening it, he carefully pulled out stacks of papers and files. He grinned. "Gentlemen. We caught us a big bad Kraut. Boy, HQ is going to have fun with this one."

"Move it, Gestapo." A private poked a handcuffed Hochstetter in the back with his rifle.

"Hogan put you up to this," Hochstetter complained as he lurched forward. "Or that idiot, Klink." He couldn't blame Burkhalter, who had disappeared, and blaming himself at this point was counter-productive. "Hogan can vouch for me. I never hurt him or his men," he explained as he was loaded into a truck heading west.

"Yeah, tell it to military intelligence, Major." The lieutenant rapped on the truck, which moved away. "Okay, men, let's move. R & R tonight in our Gestapo boy's house."

The dog handler approached the officer. "Wasn't that Hogan he mentioned, the officer in those files, Lieutenant?"

"Yup. Hopefully, they'll track him down, and get his testimony. Personally, I think the major had a screw lose. A sabotage unit operating from a prison camp!" The group of American soldiers ended the day with a good laugh.

* * *

><p><em>A field agent needs to be in the field. A spy needs to spy; and yes, an element of danger is necessary to keep the adrenaline moving. To make life worth living, to<em>…Mitch Garrett quickly slammed his notebook shut, as prying eyes in the name of the shift supervisor moved closer to his desk located in the upper floors of OSS headquarters in London. It wouldn't do to have his boss discover Garrett writing his memoirs. Quickly, he opened the drawer on the lower right hand corner of his desk, the one that locked, and shoved the notebook inside. The solitaire hand in the upper right hand corner of his desk was deftly swept up and dropped in the drawer as well. He locked it, opened a file and pretended to work. His supervisor, a pale man in his late thirties, who had never set foot in the field, paused, glanced his way, and then thankfully moved towards the door and left the room.

Garrett took a deep breath. Except for a female secretary typing away in the farthest corner, he was the only agent in the room. His partner, Todd Boswell, was home in the small flat they shared with several other agents, nursing a cold. Although he realized the work he was doing was important, well… somewhat important. Actually, anyone who spoke fluent German could translate the documents he had been handed, Garrett was bored. Since their cover was blown during their last escapade involving saving Colonel Hogan from being swapped, Boswell and Garrett had been assigned to desk duty. Frankly, he and his partner felt stifled. Protests and complaints were not heeded, although he thought, and rightly so, that the two could safely return to Germany, as long as they stayed away from Hogan's sector and were disguised. Their handler disagreed. It was too risky, he said, seeing that Hochstetter had probably sent their picture and description all over the country, and that Burkhalter wanted their heads on a platter.

So here they were. The only good points: London was exciting. The countryside was pretty, the girls were interesting, and the war, everyone assumed, was winding down. A polite cough interrupted his translating task, and he looked up.

"Mr. Garrett. I'm not interrupting anything important, I hope." The female agent, a woman named Maria…he couldn't recall her last name, smiled.

"No," What can I do for you? Maria isn't it? I'm sorry; I forgot your last name."

"Shamsky. I was told you may be able to help me out. I have some transcribed messages, and I couldn't figure out the meaning of this paragraph."

"Did you ask any native speakers?"

"No. The ones in my group are out to lunch. This is my last one for the day."

"Sure, I'll take a look." Garrett pored over the document, making several minor corrections. "Okay, I see the problem. Whoever transcribed the message, mistook these figures for men, when I think the Germans were talking tanks. But I would take it to a military person to be sure." He smiled and handed her back the file.

"Thank you. Now it seems to make sense. I'll drop it off."

Marie smiled at Garrett; then slowly turned to leave; when Garrett stood up and swiftly came around to face her. "I'm free, if you would like to go get some lunch. I know a nice pub down on Edgware Road," he said.

"I'd like that."

_Maybe being on desk duty isn't so bad after all, _Garrett thought.

_Aaachoo._ Boswell ruined another handkerchief, tossing it on the floor with the others. He groaned and turned on the sofa, facing inward, as he cursed his fate in three languages. Ever since he and Garrett had been stranded in the snow near the Rhine, he had felt lousy. First he had to deal with the skunk, then the good-natured kibitzing and teasing because he ran into a skunk, and then being put on desk duty. To top off his misery, Garrett had passed on the cold he had caught in Germany. _"Ooohh,_" he groaned. The agent attempted to sniff, but met nothing but stuffiness. An earlier hot shower had done nothing to help. Nor did the salve one of his roommates had picked up from the chemist down the road. He wrapped himself up in the afghan, shoved the hot water bottle down near his feet, and attempted to get some sleep.

He was rudely awakened several hours later as the door opened and his partner noisily walked in with…was that a girl?

Garrett paid no attention, as he spoke to his companion. "And then, I said to the attaché at the diplomacy, if this is Tuesday, this must be Dusseldorf!" Garrett and the girl erupted in peals of laughter.

"That joke again!" Boswell sat up and blew his nose. He got up off of the sofa and shuffled over to the couple. "And you would be?"_ Sniff_.

"Sorry, pal. This is Maria. She works down in transcription. We had lunch."

Boswell thought Garrett sounded as if he had a bit more than lunch.

"Charmed." The agent replied. "I'd shake your hand, miss, but…"

"That's quite all right. I heard you were ill. I hope it's nothing serious," Maria replied.

"Nothing a good homemade bowl of chicken soup wouldn't cure. But, that's hard to come by." Boswell complained.

"Your roommates aren't here?" Marie asked as she glanced around the small flat.

"No." Garrett walked over to the small table by the front door and deposited his keys in a large glass bowl. "They're on assignment elsewhere. We have the place to ourselves; at least til midnight or tomorrow morning if they stay over." He winked. "Except for Sneezy over there."

Boswell gave his partner a dirty look.

"May I use your powder room?"

"Of course." Garrett took Maria down the hall and then returned to the living area. He sat down on an overstuffed chair that faced the sofa, and proceeded to start to empty his pockets.

"Not the best time to bring someone home." _Honk._

"Not the best time for you to be home sick, when I'm bringing someone home." Garrett retorted, as he stood up and walked over to the door. The matchbook he had taken from the pub went in an ashtray on the coffee table. He thought for a moment, and then put his wallet back in his right pocket.

"How many drinks did you have?"

Garrett held up his hand. "Three, no…four…no…three."

"The least you can do is to offer to make me a cup of tea. Oh, wait. You look like you wouldn't be able to pour it without spilling it all over the counter."

"Hey, I'm not drunk. Just feeling a bit, well, warm, that's all. Tea might do you some good."

"Achoo," was the answer,

Maria returned from the powder room, and ever the gentleman, Garrett stood up. "Boswell here would like something hot to drink. Would you like some tea?"

She glanced at Boswell, who was again lying down on the sofa covered by an afghan, and at Garrett. "Actually," she said firmly, as she opened her purse, stuck her hand inside, and pointed a luger at Garrett. "What I would really like is for you to join your friend on the couch and not move.

* * *

><p><em>(1)Perhaps I should have made him a lion tamer? If you aren't familiar with this, you are probably young, and also unfamiliar with Monty Python.<em>

_Another 69 Met's reference. Art Shamsky was an outfielder._

_I was toying with using BOHICA for the title, but research showed that it wasn't that popular until later._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for all of your reviews. It's great to know that these two characters are so popular! And thank you to all who voted for TARFU. I never expected to win a PBA this year, so I am extremely flattered._

_SUSFU_

_Chapter 2_

Stunned, and not sure he was seeing or hearing correctly, Garrett froze; while Boswell, his head pounding, slowly rolled over and sat up. "Excuse me," he croaked.

"You heard what I said." Maria waved the gun a bit. "Garrett. Over on the couch."

"Maria, put the gun down before someone gets hurt," Garrett said, as he noted the safe distance she had put between the two of them.

Maria answered his chauvinism by undoing the safety, prompting Garrett to slowly back over to the couch and sit. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"You. Mama's boy." She pointed at Boswell. "Sit up, and put your hands on your lap, where I can see them, and don't go into your pockets, or I'll shoot.

"Whatever you're planning, you won't get away with it." Boswell spoke as he stifled a sneeze. He sat up, and his misery quickly forgotten, he glanced at his partner, who nodded. They were ready to make a coordinated move, despite Maria's distance, when she backed up to the door, opened it, and left it ajar. She stepped forward a few steps, all the while keeping the luger trained on the two agents. A few moments later, a man brandishing a gun, entered the apartment.

"I see you had no trouble," he commented as he pointed his weapon at Boswell and Garrett.

"No, George." Maria smiled. "It was child's play. Oh, and we have two agents for the price of one. That one was home sick." She pointed at Boswell.

"Changes things a bit," the man grumbled. "But, no matter. We can adapt."

Boswell and Garrett realized a coordinated attack at this point was suicide, seeing that Maria had reinforcements. Her accomplice was a good-looking blond in his late 20's or early 30's.

George walked over to the sofa. "Get up," he ordered Garrett, who obeyed. He quickly gave Garrett a pat-down. "He's clean. Now, you." Boswell stood up, and despite being in his pajamas, he was also patted down.

Maria nodded. "I thought so. There's no reason for them to be carrying now."

"If you tell us what you want, maybe we can strike a deal," Garrett offered, although he already knew they would get nothing out of them; nor would Maria likely fall for his offer.

She laughed.

While Garrett was trying to figure a way out of the mess he now found himself in, Boswell was mulling over the embarrassing fact that he was being held at gunpoint in his pajamas. _Perhaps I can use this to an advantage_. "Can I get dressed?"

"Pardon?" Maria, not expecting such a request, thought she had misheard...a possibility, since Boswell was speaking through a clogged head, nose and a scratchy throat.

He coughed into his sleeve and then raised his head. "_I said_ I'd like to get dressed. It's bad enough sitting here with guns pointing at me. At least, I should get dressed." He started to rise.

"Hold it!" Maria thought for a moment. "George; go into his bedroom, and get him some clothes."

"Which one?" Her cohort asked.

"Who cares? Just get an outfit."

_Shit._ Boswell thought. _I__t was worth a try_. He never expected to be allowed into the bedroom by himself, but thought he may have been able to overpower this George fellow with a gun hidden in the night table drawer. He crossed his arms in frustration.

By sheer luck, George picked the correct bedroom. It was small and spartan; but functional. There were two beds, two nightstands, a large wardrobe, and two small dressers. A quick glance at a few family photos pointed George to Boswell's dresser. After removing some underwear, socks, and a belt, he picked up the shoes placed nearby, and opened the wardrobe, reaching for the first pair of slacks and shirt he laid his eyes upon.

"Those aren't my slacks," Boswell complained as he looked at the pile of clothes.

"Put them on anyway." Maria was beginning to lose her patience.

Boswell slowly stood up and removed his pajama shirt. He was a taller man than Garrett, and the shirt sleeves were bit too short. He hesitated before removing his pants. "Would you mind turning around?" He croaked, using a hand gesture. Maria glared, but turned; while George continued to aim his gun at the two agents. "Appreciate it," Boswell said as he slipped the belt through the loops of the too short pants. "Okay," he said as he finished.

Maria turned back. "Excellent. Get your shoes on."

"How did your partner in crime know to come here?" Garrett asked Maria in order to keep her talking.

"A quick phone call when I slipped away to use the powder room. It was simple. He followed us here."

"Did you put pick us at random?" Garrett asked while Boswell finished dressing. "Or is this a personal vendetta?" He had a feeling it was the latter; although he couldn't be sure.

"What do you think, Mitch?" Maria smiled. What had seemed sweet in the pub now had a hint of evil.

"You're working for the Germans," Mitch stated. "I'll have you know, the war will be over within weeks. Whatever your plans are, it's too late."

Seeing Boswell now fully dressed, George motioned for the two American spies to get up. Neither budged. "Get up. We're going for a ride."

"My parents taught me never to get in a car with strangers," Garrett quipped. Maria walked over to Boswell and held the gun against his head. "I'd settle for one of you, so unless you want your roommates to come back and see his brains splattered all over this lovely sofa, I suggest you both move."

They obeyed, while George checked the hallway. "It's clear," he told Maria. He then removed two pairs of handcuffs from his coat pockets and cuffed their prisoners' hands in front of them.

"Just go slow, and no one will get hurt," Maria warned. "Any move; I'll shoot one of you; and any people on the sidewalk."

They then exited the building, their cuffed wrists covered by coats. Several people were walking by, but they paid no attention to the four, and both agents were reluctant to make a scene with two guns pointing at their backs, and civilians on the street.

The two American agents found themselves shoved into the back of an old unmarked lorry, and guarded by George, while Marie drove. It took quite a while to get to wherever they were going, but as they were forced out of the car, from the looks of the rubble in the area, they appeared to be somewhere in the East End, near the docks. The street and the nearby dock had taken several hits. Only one building was standing, the one they now entered. It was a small, one-story office building that, according to the sign hanging on the door, had once been an insurance firm. It had been turned into a small, three-room flat, with a living area, bedroom and kitchenette. The furniture looked new and fairly comfortable, indicating money had gone into the refurbishment. Maria flicked on the lights, while Boswell and Garrett were made to sit down in two chairs and handcuffed. Boswell, being exposed to the air and the dust, began a coughing fit.

"Get him some water," Marie ordered her accomplice while she walked over to the small table located by the kitchenette. She removed some papers, and walked over to where her two captives sat waiting. George returned and held the glass up to Boswell's lips. "Thanks," Boswell said. George just grunted, and then strode back into the bedroom.

"You'll have to excuse my brother," Maria said. "His manners are not the best."

"I can say the same for yours," Garrett replied. "Say, how did you manage to get the power reconnected?" Maria ignored his comment.

"I suppose you are wondering why I brought you here today?"

Despite their trepidation and their predicament, both men stifled a laugh; one chuckle escaping from Garrett, while Boswell coughed.

"I fail to see what is so funny, and considering who has the upper hand here, I am surprised at your mirth.

Garrett raised his eyebrows. "Listen sister; that sounded like an overused line from a bad detective movie."

"Book," Boswell sniffed. "Holmes. Poirot. Miss Marple. Maybe _The Thin Man_. It's where the detective gathers all the suspects together and…

"Of course we are wondering," Garrett quickly interrupted. "But you need us alive. Otherwise you could have shot us in the apartment."

"Yes, I work for the Germans. I've been here too long. Just waiting…"

"Waiting for what?" Boswell, wishing that his hands were free so he could blow his nose, asked.

"The right time to make a move."

"Like I said, you're nuts. The war will be over in weeks." Garrett was wondering how Maria had managed to get into the OSS and remain there. The German spy effort in England had been a total failure. He couldn't figure out how Maria and her brother had not been swept up, unless they had not slipped up and remained under the radar; possibly for years. They were sleepers, tasked to not do anything to compromise their position, unless called upon. Things could get ugly for him and Boswell. If she had sent information to Germany, it was too late now; however, he doubted it. The information she was transcribing was low level, and she wasn't privy to anything really crucial. At least that was a relief.

"We were recently given some information. Did you know there is a price on your heads?" Maria passed a sheet of paper in front of them. Their likenesses stared back at them. "We received these drawings a short time ago, and I recognized your cute, adorable faces." She squeezed Garrett's cheeks as he flinched. "Then, my brother and I set this plan in motion. With the money I can get for you even now, my brother and I can live comfortably in Argentina with the rest of the true patriots of the Fatherland, until we can rise again."

"Like I said before, you're nuts."

"You two were recently in Germany," Maria, said ignoring Garrett. "It seems you two have been playing dress up."

"We were never in Germany."

"Mitch, course you were. All over, in fact. Lately you were desguised as Gestapo and SS. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Lucky you weren't caught. You would have been tortured, and then shot as spies.

Garrett grimaced as he tried to squeeze his hands through the handcuffs and felt the metal cut into his flesh. Boswell, whose head was now pounding, closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that? My ears are clogged."

"She said we were dressing up as Gestapo and SS."

"Ridiculous," Boswell countered.

"Preposterous." Garrett added.

"Ludicrous. How stupid do you think we are?" Boswell asked.

Maria stared. "Enough of your idiotic word games. Everyone knows you were in Germany. You were recently playing games with American prisoners. Imagine my surprise when the two suspected rogue SS agents turned up at work." Maria smiled at her two captives, and sauntered into the bedroom, leaving Boswell and Garrett alone.

"We're in deep," Garrett commented calmly.

"No kidding." _Sniff._

"How ya feeling?"

Boswell shrugged. "Could be worse. Like poison ivy; then I wouldn't be able to scratch."

"That's the spirit. Stiff upper lip," Garrett said with a hint of sarcasm. You know," he whispered. "At least the camp was liberated."

"It was. But there are still operatives out there. Not that they would get anything out of us."

Garrett nodded. "Of course they wouldn't." _Wish we hadn't removed the cyanide capsules when we got back here._ "One way or another," he whispered back. "We've got to find out what else they know, and who they told."

"They may try and take us back to Germany. Although, I don't see how."

"Nah. She said she wants to go to Argentina. Unless they plan on handing us over to someone."

"Hochstetter?" Boswell surmised.

"He's way down on the corporate ladder. Means nothing. But you think he's out for revenge? Maybe he lost his mind and he is looking for someone to take his grief out on."

"Distinct possibility. Shhh."

Maria and George returned to the main room.

"It's getting late. He'll take you to make a pit stop. One at a time. Last chance of the night."

"You're too kind." Boswell watched as his partner was released and marched into the bathroom. "What's your angle, Maria? You could have kept quiet and survived the war with a nice savings, a recommendation, and a trip back to the states."

"There is no angle. I already told you."

"Sending us back to Germany? Like to see how you would accomplish that trick." _Once they discover us missing, they'll be watching the docks and the airfields._

"That is not your concern. Now shut up before I get tired of hearing your voice."

Garrett was returned in due course and Boswell was marched away by George. Garrett kept his mouth shut and glared at Maria for several minutes. Eventually, she couldn't stand the glare, and she looked away.

"George told me they're going on the radio this evening," Boswell told Garrett once they were alone.

"Peachy," he replied. "And he warned me that she's got a short fuse."

"Yeah. I could tell. Interesting. She's the brains behind this. That's obvious." Boswell rolled his shoulders back and forth, as far as he could, as they were getting tight. He then yawned. "Not looking forward to sleeping upright. You know…I think I'm feeling a bit better.

"Adrenalin. My grandmother had rheumatism, but if she caught a cold from one of us, the other symptoms went away." Garrett tried to turn his head as far as he could. "Ouch," he cried. Now he had a crick in his neck.

"Now what did you do that for?"

"The better to hear them with?" Garrett deadpanned. Despite his misery and he had to admit, fear, the comment struck Boswell as hysterically funny, and he started to laugh. Garrett joined in.

Both Maria and George marched back into the living area, and without a word, gagged both of the helpless agents. They then returned to the bedroom and began preparations to notify their contact that they had captured not one, but both agents. Meanwhile, Garrett and Boswell were about to spend a very uncomfortable night.


	3. Chapter 3

_SUSFU_

_Chapter 3_

It was close to midnight when Boswell and Garrett's two roommates, Steven Koosman and Mike Seaver, returned from a set of meetings at Bletchley Park. Tired, they opened the door, and noticed that Boswell and Garrett had left the light on for them.

Seaver dropped his keys into the bowl and headed for the kitchen to get a drink, while Koosman walked past the other bedroom. Seeing that the door was open, he pedaled back and peeked in. "They're not here," he yelled to Seaver. He turned back towards the living room, and spied the clothing left on the couch.

"The dishes are in the sink," Seaver said as he returned to the living area. The two froze in their tracks. "Their keys were in the bowl," Seaver added. A quick search of the apartment revealed no sign as to where Boswell and Garrett had gone. Koosman went over to the phone and dialed a number. "This is Steve Koosman. Get me the night OD."

Within an hour, Boswell and Garrett's flat mates and several other agents turned the apartment upside down to look for clues. Koosman packed up Boswell's clothes and placed them in a bag, telling an assistant to bring them down to headquarters for analysis. Then he and the other remaining agents, with the help of Scotland Yard, began questioning the other tenants, as well as people in the neighborhood.

It was a simple task for even the most experienced agent to discover the first clue as to Boswell and Garrett's whereabouts. A matchbook from the pub off Edgware Road that Garrett had frequented was found in the pocket of Boswell's pajamas. Koosman scratched his head and turned the book over in his hands. "There's an ashtray on the coffee table near the sofa. We had about 10 packs and they're still there. Boswell wasn't much of a smoker, and he wasn't smoking since he got sick."

John Kranepool, an agent who worked underneath Koosman, asked, "Who would have a book of matches in their pajamas?"

"Maria and Garrett may have gone there for lunch," Koosman replied. "He obviously wanted us to find it."

"I'm on it," said a young man watching the proceedings. He wrote down the pub's address and rushed out of the building. The second clue appeared early that afternoon.

Maria's shocked roommate, Anna, thought the woman worked as a secretary at a solicitor's office. She now stood meekly by, and watched her small, neat, and tidy flat turned upside down. "How did you and Maria become roommates, miss?" asked one of the investigators.

"I got bombed out," she answered with a slight East End accent. "Me mum and sisters went to the country to stay with me aunt. Me dad is working at a factory. I needed to stay for my job at a theatre. We need the money. This flat belongs to Mr. Bell, from a booking agency. He used to…"

"Got something, sir". One of the junior investigators approached the couple. "I found this on her night stand." It was a popular dime novel, one that many people read and shared. "She used this receipt as a bookmark."

The agent glanced at the receipt. Not recognizing the name, he asked Anna, "Do you know where this is, miss?"

"That's down by the docks. It's not a nice area. What would she be doing down there?"

An hour later, nothing else of any use was found in the apartment, and a female agent was assigned to protect Anna.

* * *

><p>If anyone had asked Hogan to describe in one word the liberation of Stalag 13, he would have said anticlimactic. The German pocket around Dusseldorf was one of the last areas to fall; and the battles were fierce. Towards the end, Hilda had been kept away for her safety, while several guards had deserted. Clandestine operations had shut down, and the now hungry and anxious prisoners eagerly awaited the inevitable. Hogan had several hour's warning, and the camp was taken without a fight. The Germans were processed and sent off to another liberated camp; becoming POW s in their own facility. Klink was none the wiser, and the camp and its Allied inhabitants were evacuated to the Lucky Strike camp near L'Havre, France. After a few days of medical checks, Hogan and his core team left for London for an extensive debriefing; while the rest of the camp population remained. They were processed by army intelligence, made to sign secrecy papers, and waited for transport home.<p>

"So I heard that they were no casualties. Good show." Group Captain Roberts reached over his desk and lit Hogan's cigar.

"Thanks. Yeah, we were damn lucky. Some of the boys ended up in the hospital in France. But the medical staff said they'll all be fine."

"And the tunnels?"

"We collapsed them, and the camp was razed." Hogan chuckled. "There were so many tanks, that if they had come in, we would've had a serious problem. The yard would have collapsed." He stubbed out his cigar; then looked at his watch. "I hate to make this a short visit; but I have an appointment over at OSS." He sighed. "It's only been four days, and I'm already beat."

"I expect that won't end until you're on a ship going home. So, I'll see you on Thursday at 0900. Have your men meet me here, and we'll head over to Downing Street together."

"I'm looking forward to it." Hogan grinned and shook his friend's. "On to the next meeting." Traffic was light, and Hogan arrived at OSS headquarters one-half hour early for his appointment. Rather than wait, he decided to pay an unexpected visit to the two colleagues he jokingly referred to is Moe and Larry. Once they had safely returned to Allied lines after their latest mission, they had notified Stalag 13th that they could be reached at OSS headquarters. Hogan recalled that they had offered to take him out for a beer. He wasn't sure if they were aware that the camp had been liberated.

After being led into the building, he approached reception, and checked in with the pretty girl manning the desk. _Don't let her fool you_, he thought. _She's probably got a gun in her drawer. _

She smiled. "May I help you, Colonel?"

"Yes. I'm early for a 4 o'clock meeting with Colonel Bruce. I'd like to pay a quick visit to two of your agents: Mitch Garrett and Todd Boswell."

The receptionist frowned slightly, as she looked at a sheet in front of her. "One moment." She picked up the telephone. "A Colonel Hogan is here. He has a 4 o'clock meeting with the director; but he wishes to see Agents Boswell and Garrett." A few moments later she said, "You may go up. Take the elevator to the third floor, and someone will meet you."

"Thank you." Hogan whistled softly as he entered the elevator and pushed the button. As the door opened on the third floor, he found himself greeted by a solemn looking man in a gray suit.

"This way, please."

Hogan was ushered into a conference room. Several men were present, and they all stood as Hogan entered. Moe and Larry were nowhere to be seen. Instinctively, Hogan felt something was amiss. "Do we have a problem?"

The man closest to Hogan didn't introduce himself. "What's your business with agents Boswell and Garrett, Colonel Hogan?"

"They owe me a beer," Hogan answered in all seriousness. He didn't know what was going on, and he had the impression that neither did the people in the room. He was beginning to fear that there may be a repeat of his first meeting with Boswell and Garrett.

You were just liberated?" Another man asked.

"Yes, why?"

"How do you know these two?" a young man at the end of conference table fired back.

That's classified," Hogan answered, getting annoyed at the rapid-fire line of questioning.

A short, tired looking man wearing a gray, wrinkled suit, stepped forward. "Let me put it bluntly, sir. They are both missing. We believe they were taken from their apartment sometime yesterday afternoon or early evening."

"Who are you?"

"Mike Seaver. Steven Koosman and I share their flat." Another tired looking man in the back raised his hand in acknowledgment. "We returned last night around midnight. Their keys were still there. Todd's pajamas were on the sofa, and the dishes had been left in the sink.

"His pajamas?" Hogan interrupted.

"I'll backtrack, sir. He was home sick. They wouldn't have left the place without taking their keys, or cleaning up the kitchen. Todd is very meticulous. Plus they didn't report in this morning."

"They wouldn't have gone off chasing a lead, would they?"

"Not likely," Koosman answered. "Mitch was last seen leaving the building around 1400. He was with a transcriber named Maria Shamsky. She hasn't reported in either. Right now some agents are checking her flat."

All thoughts of meeting with the director were now gone. Hogan was forced to consider if any of his dealings with the two OSS agents had something to do with their disappearance.

Hogan made an executive decision. "We have a history. If they've been captured and talk, people could still be in danger."

"What kind of history, sir?" Seaver asked.

"Let's just say we worked together while I was in the POW camp." Hogan looked at his watch and realized it was time for his meeting.

* * *

><p>Colonel Bruce stood up and shook Hogan's hand. "It's good to see you again, Robert, and congratulations on a successful mission. I hear there's a promotion in your future."<p>

Hogan thanked him. "I assume that this was going to be more of a social call, and a quick debriefing; but you have a serious problem."

"Our missing agents?" He raised his eyebrow. "You know them?"

"Three missions. I'm surprised you don't know."

"I wasn't aware you made contact."

Hogan grimaced. "Tell me about it. It's a long story. And they know a lot if they are compromised. Listen, I know hostilities could be over soon, but there's a lot of wacko's left over there. Some of my people could still be in danger. There could be reprisals, and my man, Olsen, is continuing some outside operations in the area. I'd like to do anything I can to help."

The director nodded. "Their roommates are in charge of the investigation." He pushed a button. "Send Seaver and Koosman up here."

Once Seaver and Koosman were instructed to allow Hogan to assist, they left Hogan and the director to continue with Hogan's debriefing. The meeting went smoothly, and given the circumstances, the director cut it short. Hogan was anxious to see if any information regarding Boswell and Garrett had turned up, and headed back to the conference room, now turned into a command center. Seaver and Koosman, as well as several other agents, were studying a map of London pinned onto the wall. "Anything?" Hogan asked as he walked in.

"We have two clues, sir. We think the matchbook was deliberately placed in the pocket of Todd's pajamas so that we would find it. It's from the pub where he and Maria went for lunch. They left there at four, and headed back to the apartment building.

"Maria is either a German plant," Hogan stated. "Or, she was also taken. Could she be an innocent bystander?"

Seaver shook his head. "Not in my opinion. If they disappeared, as well as Maria, we would have assumed that without the matchbook. According to the pub, they never interacted with anyone else, except the servers. She left their table once."

"Where did she go?"

"We're not sure. The ladies' room, perhaps. And then there's this receipt. It just came in. It was found in a book on Maria's nightstand. Her roommate wondered why Maria would have a receipt from this establishment. It's located in a rough area near the docks."

"Why would an American go there? And what if she bought the book used?" Hogan wondered out loud.

"She didn't. The book originally belonged to her roommate, who finished it and then lent it to Maria. It was purchased in a bookstore on Oxford Street. There were no other papers or bookmarks in there. We need to get down to the East End, and we're rechecking her family and work references."

Hogan thought for a moment as he gazed at Maria's photo for the first time. "One of my men is from the East End," he said. "He knows it like the back of his hand."

* * *

><p><em>Bletchley Park was the site of secret British codebreaking activities during WWII and birthplace of the modern computer. (courtesy of Bletchley Park website)<em>

_Continuing with the 1969 New York Mets roster: Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman were two of the ace pitchers of the NY Mets. Seaver is probably the most famous and well-loved player in NY Mets history. Ed Kranepool was the first baseman and was the only original Met from the 1962 team that was on the 1969 roster. The Mets lost over 100 games their first season, but endeared themselves to the fans. They defeated the Baltimore Orioles in 5 games in the 69 World Series. _

_Colonel David Bruce was the London chief off OSS. The London office of OSS was located at 70 Grovenor Street West, which is near the US Embassy._

_Group Captain Roberts is from the original series. (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to London) While held prisoner at another Stalag, the Germans used plastic surgery on one of their agents. The agent was turned into Robert's double in order to assassinate Churchill. They brought Roberts to Stalag 13 to see if Hogan would see through the imposter. Hogan and Roberts were close friends. Of course, with the help of the bugs, they discovered the plot, thwart the assassination plan, and send Roberts back to England. I made up the appt at Downing Street (the residence of the British PM), so that Churchill could thank them personally._

_My story, SNAFU, introduced Boswell and Garrett. Due to one department not talking to another department, they were sent to Stalag 13 in order to discover if Hogan had either been brainwashed, or if he was working with the enemy. A pilot that had ended up there, and had not been told of the operation, notified his superiors that he suspected Hogan had been compromised. Hogan just missed being sent back to London to either be court-martialed or given psychiatric care. LOL. Needless to say, his first meeting with these two agents, did not go well. SNAFU is short, and if you haven't read it, please do so and send me a review! If you send a review, I will send you virtual good wishes._


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews for ch. 3 and "The Telephone Hour!" I am sorry I was not able to answer each and everyone of you personally. (Real life issues-parents...again. But I appreciate the feedback**. Irishdancer**...you didn't sign in, so I was not able to get in touch with you, and thank you for reading SNAFU. **ST PA...**the same._

_Chapter 4_

Hogan was about to contact Newkirk, when a call came in for him from Special Operations. Taking it in the outer office, he leaned up against the secretary's desk. A moment later, he sat down in her chair, hard, while his face turned a bit pale.

"What's the situation?" Colonel Bruce asked; concerned.

"Do you belief in coincidence?" Hogan asked.

"Not really, no."

"Good. Me, neither." Hogan stood up. "It seems my outfit's favorite nemesis was recently captured along with the file he had on me."

"I see," Bruce said. "And there's more?"

"Information on your two agents. Drawings of them were circulated all over the place."

"Here?"

Hogan nodded. "I'm sorry, Colonel. It appears our dealings must have precipitated their kidnapping."

Bruce sighed. "Yes. It does look that way. But don't blame yourself. Communication is essential, but where do you draw the line? How much is too much?"

"I think it's going to take us through a lot more wars before we figure that out," Hogan answered. "I'll get in touch with my men. The more personnel we have looking for Boswell and Garrett, the better."

_Earlier that morning  
><em>

Back at Maria and George's hideaway, the two agents tried to wake up after a miserable night. They hurt all over, and were also hungry. Only the stress they could hear in their captors' voices gave them hope.

"Well, try contacting someone else," George said testily. "You know, you'd think Karl would have answered, seeing as he gave you the pictures."

"I've tried him on all frequencies. Remember?" Maria answered her brother. She tapped her fingers on the table in the bedroom that held the radio. "I'll try this Gestapo agent," she finally decided. After checking the code book, she began tapping out a message. After 15 minutes, she again attempted to send a message. Her temper now becoming more agitated, George decided to leave the room. He slammed the door behind him, as he waltzed into the kitchen to get something to eat. Shrugging his shoulders, he walked over to the two captive men seated in the living area. He pulled off Garrett's gag.

The agent coughed, and tried to swallow some saliva to moisten his mouth. "Water," he croaked.

George wordlessly went over to the tap and filled two glasses. He held it up to Garrett's mouth, who drank it gratefully, then did the same for Boswell, who coughed for several minutes in an attempt to clear the phlegm and mucous from his lungs. No offer of food was coming, not that the two would have eaten it anyway…unless there were assurances that the food wasn't drugged.

"Your sister seems to be having a bad morning," Garrett said. "No one at home to answer the call?"

"Mind your own business." George removed Garrett's cuffs and escorted him to the bathroom, holding his gun on the agent the entire time. A moment later, he did the same for Boswell.

"Don't you think you should be calling the shots around here? You're the older one, aren't you?" Boswell asked as he was escorted back to his chair.

"No and yes." After securing the two prisoners, George opened the door, and looked outside. Satisfied that no one was lurking around their hideout, he shut the door.

"Ah, I get it. She's the one who managed to get planted inside the OSS, while you're just the muscle."

"I can hear you!" Maria shouted from the bedroom. "George, gag those two up again, and get in here."

There was little noise from the bedroom for quite a while. Every so often, either Maria or George would poke their head out; make sure everything was copacetic; then pop back into the bedroom. The agents dozed until late afternoon, when Boswell's cold took a turn for the worse and he began to choke.

"Mmmph." Garrett, seeing his partner in distress, attempted to make as much noise as possible, eventually tipping over his chair and smacking it onto the floor. "Oomph." _That hurt._ But the sound got the attention of their captors, who ran out into the living room. George quickly righted Garrett and pulled off the gag.

"Take his gag, off," Garrett screamed. "He's suffocating!"

Maria, seeing the sweat on Boswell's face, complied. The agent took several deep breathes, and then began a spasm of coughing that lasted several minutes. Maria, not wanting to kill one of her tickets out of the country, left the gags off. "Keep it quiet," she warned before she reentered the bedroom.

Maria and George fruitlessly attempted to contact anyone that could help them get rid of their baggage. Eventually, Maria marched back into the living room. "Tell me about Wolfgang Hochstetter."

"Who's he?" Garrett asked.

"You know darn well who he is."

"Sorry, don't know anyone with the name Wolfgang. Except Mozart of course. Not that I know him personally. He's dead."

George slapped Garrett. "Tell her."

"He's a Gestapo agent. Although you already know that. Now tell me where to find him!" Maria withdrew her pistol.

Garrett began to speak, quickly. "All right. He's a Gestapo agent. By now, he's either dead, in hiding, captured, or on the run. If you're trying to reach him, I doubt he'd be on the radio. That would only put a flashing neon sign over where he is that says: Hey Allies, Gestapo agent in hiding…right here."

"So you know him. Now we're getting somewhere." Maria put down the pistol.

"He didn't say he knew him." Boswell said.

"But he specifically said Hochstetter is a Gestapo agent," George retorted.

"_No. She_ said he was a Gestapo agent. What I said would apply to any SS or Gestapo agent in the area. They would be trying to save their own necks." Garrett said wondering if indeed Hochstetter, if captured, would turn chicken and say anything to try and save himself, or if the major would remain a loyal Nazi to the bitter end. He suspected the former.

Maria's face began to turn red. She turned, and without a word, returned to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

"Ooh, now you got her mad," Boswell quipped.

"I could shoot you right now," George claimed. He then followed his sister into the bedroom, where he found her counting to twenty in an attempt to control her temper.

"Let me shoot them right now and be done with it. They're more trouble than they're worth. Besides, the longer they're here, the longer they have to figure out a way out of those handcuffs." He pulled out his pistol and examined the chamber; stroking his weapon in a way that made Maria cringe.

"Put that away," she ordered her brother. "First of all, they're not Houdini. If they knew how to get out of those things, they would have done it by now. Second, what would we do with the bodies? They're already searching for us. They find the bodies here; they could pick up a trail."

"London is a big city, Maria. We could hide, maybe disguise ourselves. We could bury them in some rubble."

"You idiot! They'd know in an instant they weren't killed by a bomb. The bodies would be too fresh, and then there are the bullet holes."

"Dump them in the river!" That prospect seemed to perk up George.

"Patrols. We need them as collateral. Or have you forgotten? We need money to get out of here. I can't stand this stinking island any longer. Without the money, we can't bribe the boat captain to get us to Ireland. Think! Oh, wait. That's my job," Maria muttered. She sat down on the edge of one of the twin beds and began biting her lip in concentration, while her brother went over to the radio and began tapping out another message in another attempt to reach their London control agent.

The two German spies had made no attempt to speak quietly during this exchange, and Garrett and Boswell were able to pick up the gist of the conversation. Relieved that Maria wasn't trigger-happy, at least for the moment, and amused at George's lack of common sense and that their adversaries' plans had gone up in smoke, the two began to discuss their situation in a whisper.

"Looks like they're out of options," Boswell said. He stifled a cough and attempted to move his stiffened shoulders. "All those missions inside Germany, and we're gonna die like this."

"If I were them, I'd ask for ransom," Garrett, who had been mulling things over, said.

Boswell turned his head. "Did you hit your head when you fell? Cause you're not making any sense. OSS would never pay any ransom."

"Look. They're looking for money. Sure that's policy, but they don't know that."

"Maria would know. She worked there." Boswell countered. "Besides, as much as I'd like to get out of here before I die of pneumonia, I'm not too keen on that idea. They could go after someone else next."

"It may be the only chance we have before they give up and decide to kill us anyway, or worse."

Boswell shrugged. "Maybe."

"Follow my lead." Garrett cleared his throat and spoke louder this time. "If I were them, I'd ask for ransom."

"Did you hit your head when you fell? Cause you're not making any sense. OSS would never pay any ransom." Boswell repeated.

"You don't know that. Remember when the …" Garrett stopped speaking as the door to the bedroom flew open. _Bingo._

"Remember the what?" Maria asked him directly.

"They won't pay for ransom," Garrett stated.

Boswell let out a small cough.

Seconds later, Maria turned to her brother. "Stay here and watch them. Don't leave the room. I'm heading out to make a phone call."

_HHHH_

The British corporal and his three buddies from Stalag 13 were enjoying a quiet afternoon at his family's flat off Amhurst road. When Mavis' building in Stepney was destroyed in one of the first air raids, she had moved in with her parents to Evelyn Court, a larger apartment complex located in the borough of Hackney. Her parents had proudly left the Brady Street tenements years ago and had moved up in the world as they said. The complex was a mixture of mostly Jewish Londoners like themselves, and a smattering of other East Enders. Since Mavis' husband was on a naval destroyer, she welcomed the company. Her parents also preferred to have their daughter nearby, in case of another close call.

As Carter, LeBeau and Kinch soon realized, Newkirk had a tendency to exaggerate, fudge and make-up stories about his family; usually to get something from the Germans. Yes, they had been involved in the circus. His mother had danced, and he had developed an unfortunate habit of stealing and pick-pocketing which had been put to better use, as he had admitted. His father, Paul, on leave from the Home Guard to welcome his son home, was describing in great detail the close call Evelyn Court had one night.

"It landed right in the middle of Amhurst Road, it did. Blew the flats across the road to bits, and then set the road on fire. The gas main looked like a pilot light on the cooker."

"Boy, you were awfully lucky." Carter said, amazed.

"We were in the shelters," Mrs. Newkirk said, recalling the night. "Do you remember dear…those boys on leave?" she asked her husband.

"Right. I'm also a warden. Next morning, a group of sailors were standing there, looking at the fire, and smoking!"

Carter gasped. "That's stupid!"

"Gave them what for…" The phone rang and Newkirk's father got up to answer. "Hackney 5383."

"Yes, he is right here. Hold on, sir. Peter, Colonel Hogan on the line for you."

Newkirk jumped up and took the receiver from his father. "Yes, sir. Right away. No, they are all with me. "Sorry, Mum, Dad. We have to go."

"Something wrong?" Kinch asked.

"Don't know. He wants our help with a small problem. It's probably paperwork." Newkirk's family only knew that their son and his three friends were part of Hogan's staff.

"Well, don't leave your colonel waiting, my boy," Paul said with a hint of pride. Both he and his wife, Ann, had seen through their son's letters from the POW camp. Initially, they were sober and tinged with depression. Gradually, they noticed a subtle and more pleasant change. This, they chalked up to the new American officer that had taken charge of the prisoners, and had picked Newkirk to be on his staff.

"Will do, Dad. Mum." As Newkirk and his friends left the flat, he poked his head back through the door. "Don't wait up."

_A/N Ireland was neutral during the war. (Unbelievable) I figured if they could get a boat to Ireland, from there they could get transportation to Argentina_

_When a person in England answers the telephone, they recite their phone number.(instead of saying hello) Or at least they did in the 70's and 80's, the last time I was there. Obviously the phone number is fake, but they probably used the letters or towns like we did as the prefix._

_Newkirk's background: Yes, I am using my Dad's background. He was born on Brady Street in a cold water tenement flat in 1923. This was in the Whitechapel area. This area of the East End was primarily Jewish. Eventually, his family and relatives left the area and began heading north several miles to the Borough of Hackney, where Evelyn Court is located. (It's still there). Others headed to Stoke Newington and other areas. The bomb story is true. My father has Alzheimer's, but he can still remember a lot of old history of course. He was on leave from the Navy, and he and his shipmates were smoking. (I used more of my Dad's background for "Out the Front Gates.": Newkirk's chapter.) If you type in Evelyn court, London on Google, you can see pictures. Unfortunately, the original Brady Street address near Whitechapel doesn't seem to exist anymore. It was two blocks north of Whitechapel road. The flat used to overlook Durwood Street, right across from where Jack the Ripper had his first victim. (originally Buck's row.) My father said he could see the place from his parent's bedroom window. (spooky). He and his friends did not like walking on that part of Durwood street, for obvious reasons._


	5. Chapter 5

_SUSFU_

_Chapter 5_

The cell was exactly four meters long and three meters wide. A cot attached to the wall took up one side. A blanket and a pillow were neatly placed on the foot of the bed. A sink and toilet were on the furthest end. There were no windows, only bars. It was perfectly comfortable. The accommodations that the inhabitant was used to were absolutely dreadful. Not that he had stayed in any of them, per se. They were, after all, for his prisoners. So too, were the interrogations. Comfortable, that is. The American officer spoke perfect German, and was strict, but polite. There was no threat of physical violence. The only deprivation: a lack of cigarettes, barely edible institutional style food, and boredom. This was about to change.

"Get up, Major."

Hochstetter took his time rising from the cot. He had been dozing; dreaming of all things, that fat guard at Stalag 13. He walked over to the cell door and stared at his captor, who glared back at the Gestapo agent with contempt. The guard removed handcuffs from his back pocket; then opened the door. Hochstetter wordlessly turned around, letting the guard cuff his hands behind his back, as he had done several times a day since he had been captured and taken to the Belgium jail located in a small town situated near the German border.

"You're going on a trip." the guard said, as he led the major to the small reception area located in the front of the police station.

Hochstetter raised his eyebrows. "Am I?"

"Apparently, someone else is interested in you." He nodded at the guards and a man in a suit waiting by the front door.

"And where am I going?"

The guard shrugged. "They didn't say. Good riddance, Major."

Hochstetter snarled at the guard. "Bah."

"Let's go." The man in the suit gave Hochstetter a push, and the Gestapo agent came to the conclusion that this group of Americans was not so polite.

* * *

><p>After a long taxi ride, and looking dapper in their newly reissued dress uniforms, the multinational unit of Newkirk, Kinch, LeBeau and Carter presented themselves at the reception area of the OSS building. Expected; they were immediately escorted up to the conference room on the third floor, where Hogan was waiting. Now in a more formal environment, they all saluted their former commander, who returned the salute and told them to be at ease. The four, noticing the other men in the room, looked to Hogan for guidance.<p>

"Thanks for coming so quickly." He smiled. "These are my four right-hand men from the camp," he said to the others in the room. "And Newkirk here knows London like the back of his hand."

The corporal nodded. "I had a stint as a taxi driver before the war. Passed the knowledge on the first go," he reported proudly. All of the agents were familiar with the stringent requirements for becoming a London cabbie, and were dutifully impressed.

"That could be a big help," Koosman smiled and came over and shook Newkirk's hand. "We also have Scotland Yard and MI 6 giving us some assistance. What do you know about this establishment?" He handed Newkirk the slip of paper Maria had used as a bookmark.

"Down by Whitechapel. In the East End. It was a pub last time I looked. And not a very nice one I might add. Pretty seedy, even for that area." Newkirk looked up at the colonel. "Care to fill us in, sir?"

Hogan gave them the quick and brief version of events, followed by Koosman, who concluded the briefing.

"And that's why we suspect they're being held somewhere in the East End," Koosman explained as the phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

* * *

><p>It had taken Maria some time before finding an intact, working phone booth. She had wound her way through the bomb-damaged streets of the East End and the dock area along the Thames. Some sections had been cleared of debris, leaving the streets open for foot and vehicle traffic. Mounds of ruined buildings and vehicles lined the streets, while other areas recently hit with v1 and v2 rockets were not as clean. Some of the roadways were impassable and she had to make several detours. After about an hour of walking, she found herself near St. Paul's, where she discovered an intact phone booth, and dialed a number. A female voice answered and Maria hurriedly dropped some coins in the slot, cursing the English system of pay phones. After hearing the tell-tale click, she spoke.<p>

"I have some information about your missing agents."

"One moment." The woman on the other end didn't hesitate, and quickly routed the call upstairs to Koosman.

"Who is this?"

"By now you know who it is. If you want to see your two men alive, listen closely."

Koosman quickly waved several agents over while Seaver picked up an extension. "Go ahead." He grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil, paying careful attention to any background noise.

"I want 50,000 pounds in unmarked bills."

Koosman nearly choked. "You're asking for ransom? Do you have any idea how much money that is?"

"Are you deaf?" Maria replied in an icy voice. "Yes, I'm asking for ransom. I have it on good authority that you've made deals in the past."

"On whose authority?"

"Boswell or Garrett. I don't remember which one. They seem to blend in, and they sound alike after a while. Hard to tell them apart. Never mind. Deliver the ransom, or they'll be shot."

Koosman glanced at the director of the agency, who hearing that a call had come in was now in the room. The director nodded and mouthed…"keep her talking."

"How do we know they're not dead already?"

"You'll have to take my word for it."

"No deal. Prove to us that they're alive, and then we can talk."

Maria took in a deep breath. There was no phone service at the flat, and she didn't wish to risk taking one of the hostages out with her. Finally, she made a decision. "You'll be contacted by radio within the hour."

Koosman and Seaver put down the receivers. "She called from a pay phone. If we make a drop, we might be able to follow her or her accomplice," Seaver said. "Can we get the funds?"

"I'll authorize it. I want these bastards," the director replied. "We'll offer half first, and then after they return our men, the rest." He walked over to the liaison from British intelligence standing next to a detective from Scotland Yard.

"I'm surprised you would give in to her demands," the British spy said as he nonchalantly lit a cigarette. "But then you all have more funds than we do."

"If we didn't, we'd have two dead agents, and these two spies would disappear into the woodwork. Not that I doubt that you would eventually find them; but this way, we can get them jump on them and hopefully rescue our men," the director stated.

"They're not going to be easy to follow," Hogan said as he studied a map of the East End. "If she's been trained, and if they're in a bombed out area, it could be quite a problem."

"We're trained in this, sir," the man from Scotland Yard answered the colonel. "No offense."

"None taken. We never went to spy school. Just learned it on the fly."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration," Carter mumbled to LeBeau, who shushed the younger man.

The director shook his head, wondering not for the first time, how Hogan and his men managed to get out of Germany alive. He stood up and got everyone's attention. "She won't agree to our drop-off point, so I want every available man and woman ready to fan out throughout the city. Teams of two."

Sandwiches, tea and coffee were brought up, and the men waited for the next contact.

* * *

><p>The door to the office building turned hideout swung open so swiftly that it banged into the adjacent wall, leaving a nice dent. Maria stomped into the room, and flung her coat angrily onto a chair. She glared at her two captives and noticed that George had gagged them again. <em>Probably were riving him insane<em>, she thought.

"What happened?" George asked nervously.

"They want proof they're alive, or there's no deal."

"Not surprised," her brother replied. "I told you I'd take care of things. They're too much trouble."

Greed got the best of Maria. That and the fear of being hunted down before they could get away. "No. I told them we would contact them by radio. Get them up one at a time, and bring them into the bedroom."

George literally had to drag both Boswell and Garrett into the bedroom, as the two agents were sick of cooperating. However, he was prone to listen to his sister, and he managed to fling the two men onto one of the beds. Out of breath, he ripped off their gags. "You two are pushing it."

"We're not cooperating," Garrett said as he licked his lips.

"They won't make a deal unless they have proof you two are alive. This time I'll shoot _you_ first." Maria pointed her pistol at Garrett.

"What do you have in mind?" Boswell asked slowly.

"Your own special frequencies and Morse code. They'll know your hand."

Boswell nodded. What Maria said was true. Each agent had their own unique hand while tapping out messages. They also had their own special frequency and personal code, in case they were captured or compromised. "All right." Boswell got up off the bed and walked over to the radio. "Let me lose and I'll contact them." _Hopefully, with a ransom drop, they can follow her. _He was taking a chance. The woman was no amateur, and he didn't know what would happen, but it was better than getting shot right here. Despite Maria's concerns about money and being captured, he had no doubt that she wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger, and neither did his partner.

"You'll let them know that both of you are safe and in good condition."

"No, I can't. They'll want to hear from Garrett."

"Fine. George. Uncuff this one, and then we'll make a switch." Maria then stood over the radio, as first Boswell, and then Garrett made contact. Garrett slowly tapped out a simple message. First came his unique code, confirming his identity. He also retold a brief private joke that only Koosman would recall. Maria then took over and tapped out a message with instructions for a drop as Garrett watched.

_You'll get half up front, and half when they're released and safe. That's our final offer_, was the response.

Maria waited for a moment. _Deal_, she tapped.

Boswell was seated on the bed as this was transpiring, his hands again cuffed behind his back. As Maria was tapping out the final message, George had swung his attention onto Garrett who had stepped behind the chair. Seeing this, Boswell slowly moved himself over to the edge of the bed. Garrett, meanwhile, stole a peek at George and at the pistol loosely pointed at his chest. He noticed his partner slowly moving, and with a grace and timing coming from years of training and practice, they both made a move. Boswell jumped off and flung himself into George's back, dislodging the weapon. At the same instant, Garrett hit the floor and found himself in a mad scramble for the gun. There wasn't much Boswell could do except kick George in the head. Maria, instead of joining in the fray, calmly reached into her purse, and before Garrett could get a handle on the loose gun, fired into the ceiling, getting everyone's attention. She then pointed her gun at Garrett, who seeing that they had been defeated, raised his arms. Without a word, George pulled himself up, grabbed his pistol, and pistol whipped both agents, leaving them unconscious on the floor of the bedroom.

"What did you do that for?" Maria, annoyed, demanded of her brother.

"What did I do that for? Are you serious? They almost got the drop on us. We could have been killed. Personally, I'm sick of them. I'm sick of watching them, and sick of listening to them."

"Now we'll have to drag them over to the chairs."

"Leave them on the floor. Just put Garrett's cuffs back on, and I can get some rope and tie their feet."

"Then cuff each of them around the bed frames. I don't want them anywhere near each other. And next time, don't take your eyes off of either of them for a second." Maria was angry at her brother's carelessness, but didn't show it. She needed him to remain calm.

"Fine," George grumbled, as he secured their two prisoners. "They've decided to deal?"

"Half now, and half when they're released and safe."

"They'll never give you the second half," George replied, stating the obvious.

"I know that. That's why I asked for so much in the first place."

"Ah." George nodded. "That was good thinking. So what's next?"

"Arrange for someone to pick up the ransom."

* * *

><p><em>I just had to get Hochstetter back in there. People were asking about him.<em>

_The Knowledge is a test that you need to pass to become a taxicab driver. "If you wish to be an All-London driver (the area within a six-mile radius from Charing Cross), you must become familiar with 320 routes in the city and all places of interest therein. Passing the All-London Knowledge takes between two and four years." wwwdotehowdotcom_

_St. Paul's Cathedral miraculously survived the attacks on the night of December 29, 1940. The Germans targeted the City of London with bombs, and incendaries, and the night was dubbed, the "second Great Fire of London." Churchill ordered that the cathedral be saved at all costs and despite the conflagration, the lack of water and the fires, it was saved; boosting morale. BBC website has a good article about the history of that night._

_Pay phones. I don't know if the system has changed since I was last in Europe in the 80's. I found it to be very annoying and it was easy to lose calls. You dialed the number first, and when someone answered, you had to quickly drop in the coins to continue the call. there may have been a tone after someone answered, but I can't remember. Loved the red booths, though. _

_The amount of ransom Maria asked for is exorbitant. In 2010, £50000 0s 0d from 1945 is worth £1,680,000.00 using the retail price index £5,500,000.00 using average earnings. wwwdotmeasuringworthdotcom Great Britain was probably broke at this point._

_In the episode, "How to Catch a Papa Bear," Newkirk had a specific radio frequency to use to call the camp. Hogan had set up another code, which of course, the female agent didn't use. The Spy museum in Washington DC, had an exhibition on the Morse code and radios, and I recall reading about the individual hand that each agent had. It makes sense to me, that everyone would tap differently._


	6. Chapter 6

_Hi. my sister and I are down at my parent's house in Florida, where I have been for over a week. I have been writing this on a new computer with a **very slow** internet connection. Some of you may know that my mother is extremely ill (late-stage Alzheimers,) and that hospice is here. I find writing is a good outlet. This hasn't been proofed, so please excuse any errors. My reference collection is back home, as well. However, there are quite a few footnotes. I am not sure if the Cockney rhyming slang is used correctly...but I did my best. Sorry, no Hochstetter in this chapter._

_SUSFU_

_Chapter 6_

"We have confirmation that Boswell and Garrett are alive," Seaver stated as he and Koosman entered the conference room. "And the drop is scheduled for tomorrow morning at 0500."

"What did they say?" Hogan asked.

"Nothing. Just that they were all right. They were obviously being watched; so there were no hints of their location."

"I say we continue in the East End. It's the only clue we have," Hogan replied.

"We've been staking out the pub," Koosman reported. "Meanwhile, they didn't agree to our drop-off point. The new one is King's Cross. Track 9." (1)

Hogan nodded. "Getting back to the pub. You haven't made contact, or asked for identification?"

"Not yet. Just in case someone there is involved, and squeals."

Newkirk raised his hand. "If I may, sir. I might be able to acquire some useful information the old-fashioned way. And I'm originally from around those parts," he said, as he cracked his knuckles.

"You can't go like that, Newkirk." Carter said, pointing out the obvious.

"You gents have a change of clothes?" the Cockney corporal asked, looking down at his uniform.

A short while later, Hogan, Newkirk and Carter, wearing dingy civilian clothes, and backed up by Koosman, headed towards the East End. Seaver, joined by Kinch and LeBeau, remained at headquarters to control the operation from there. Kinch obviously would not fit in on the East End, and LeBeau's accent was too thick. The two, having both Hogan's authorization and the okay from Special Ops, gave a more detailed description of the three missions, or run-ins, as they jokingly called it, that they had shared with Boswell and Garrett. (2)

_HhHhHh_

Meanwhile, the two agents awakened from being knocked unconscious by George's pistol with two bruised egos, and splitting headaches. They found themselves shackled to the bedframe, with their feet tied together for good measure.

Garrett struggled again with the cuffs in a futile effort to become an American escape artist, while Boswell maneuvered as best as he could in a hopeless attempt to find a metal shard to use as a pick.

"This is that captain's fault," he complained.

"What captain?"

"The one that complained about you know who and you know what. Got us involved. If he hadn't stuck his nose in something he had no business sticking his nose in, we wouldn't have been sent back there twice." (3)

"I would have been very happy being blissfully unaware of that operation and its heroics," Garrett agreed. "Reading about it later on would have been perfectly fine with me." He shut his eyes and leaned his head back on the mattress, while Boswell coughed and then peeked out the open door.

"He's asleep," he whispered. "And she's gone."

"Dandy. We could sneak up on him. Just one problem. I can't get out."

"Well, keep trying. I'm trying to break off a piece of metal."

_HhHhHh_

Hogan, Newkirk, Koosman and Carter, carrying flashlights, were let off near Whitechapel Road in the East End of London. "This is my old stomping ground." Newkirk said proudly. "Down the road a bits…Brady Street, where me and Mavis were born. Cold water flats."

Carter peeked around the corner and spied brick buildings standing amongst the rubble. A few prefab homes, sent over to Britain by the states, could also be seen. (4) It was hard to make out the size or scope due to the darkness, but the area was, as Newkirk had described, lower-class and rough.

"Up there," Newkirk pointed. "Buck's row. Could see where Jack the Ripper killed one of his victims from me Mum and Dad's bedroom. Me and me mates would run pell-mell through here. Jack could have still been alive, you know."

"Oh, Newkirk, that's spooky." Carter shuddered at the thought. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather head the other way."

Hogan turned to Carter. "After everything we've been through, you're afraid of one little street?"

"It's not the same thing, sir." Carter shook his head vigorously. "This is Jack the Ripper we're talking about."

"And an old serial killer who's most likely dead by now is worse than the Nazis?" Hogan grinned, while Koosman chuckled. "Never mind. Newkirk. Are we almost there?"

"Just around the bend here, sir." Newkirk turned south and headed for the docks. Most of this area had been destroyed, but every now and then, you could see an intact building, or a row of dingy homes that had somehow survived the Blitz, the firestorms, and the rockets.

Although it was dark, Carter studied the area intently, looking for tell-tale signs of bomb damage and the range of destruction. Some of the debris had been cleared away, while stray dogs and cats ran through the piles, looking for food or a place to bed down. Human figures were skulking about. He instinctively reached for a weapon that wasn't there.

"Turn out those torches!" (5) A warden approached the team, and glared at the four as if his life depended on it. "Hitler hasn't surrendered yet."

"Do as he says," Hogan ordered, not wanting to cause any trouble, or give away their identity. His fake British accent gave him away.

"You're a Yank. What are you three doing in these parts? You live here?" He looked at Newkirk, who seemed to ooze native.

"We're heading for the Pig and Whistle. (6) We have business there."

"Do ya now?" The warden eyed the three with suspicion. "You're Yanks as well?" he asked, directing his query to Koosman and Carter.

"Yes, sir," Koosman replied.

"Listen. It's a free country. Just got back from fighting for it. We can go where we want." Newkirk stated. He had heard complaints from his countrymen about the sometimes overzealous watchmen, fire wardens and the like. Some had been very heroic, but others seemed to like to abuse their authority. He sighed. _It takes all kinds. _

The warden couldn't argue with Newkirk's logic, but he wondered why the four weren't in uniform.

"That's a rough pub, but it's still standing, if ya get me drift." He still remained in their path, and Hogan was becoming inpatient.

"He's telling the truth. We just got back from Germany." Hogan's eyes bored into the Englishman's. The colonel won the stare down by a mile, as the warden blinked. Hogan smiled. "We'll be going now. never saw us," he ordered firmly. (7)

"Go ahead. And no, I never saw ya." The warden scratched his head as he watched the group head off into the darkness. "What business they have down there; I don't want to know," he muttered as he continued his route.

"I thought I had a good British accent," Hogan complained to Newkirk. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Never came up before, sir. It was your German accent that we were concerned about."

The Pig and Whistle was located in the bottom floor corner of the only building standing in a street one block away from the water. They noticed several men hanging around the corner, and assumed they were either from Scotland Yard, or the OSS. The four opened the door and entered, heading for a small empty table stuck away in the back. The pub reeked of beer, ale and cigarettes. As they made their way around the tables, eyes bored into their backs. "We're being watched," Hogan whispered to Newkirk.

"Strangers. This is a local place, anyone new rates some attention. May mean nothing." Newkirk pulled out the chairs, and while the other three sat, he walked up to the bar and ordered four beers. Ta." he said as he grabbed the steins and brought them over to the table.

Carter almost spit his out. "I forgot your stuff was served warm," he complained as he wiped off his mouth.

"Blimey, Carter. How could you forget something like that?"

"They served cold beer in the officer's club on base."

"I thought you were a sergeant," Koosman whispered to Carter.

"Long story," he replied. (8)

Newkirk rolled his eyes and was about to make a fitting retort, when Hogan nudged him. The colonel was eyeing some men in the front corner of the bar. They appeared to be regulars and had the look of those who had been working hard, perhaps in the factories, or docks, and who belonged. Newkirk fingered the photo of Maria that he had in his pocket, and went up to the bar. He spoke with the barkeep, who poured out three drafts, and then delivered them to the three men. The men questioned the barkeep, who then pointed at Hogan's table. Newkirk walked over.

"Mind answering a few questions?" he asked in an accent thicker than normal.

Suspicious, the oldest man at the table stared at the stranger. "You a bottle?" (9)

Newkirk shook his head. "No. Just doing a favor for some real close friends of mine." He took a sip of his beer, which had been watered down; not a surprise, given the shortages and dire economic situation.

"Those your china?" (10) another man asked.

"Let's just say some very close colleagues. No, my friends could be in trouble, and I'm just trying to figure out where they might be. Figured you would have seen something." Newkirk paused and looked around the room. "Grew up around the corner from 'ere."

"Never seen your boat (11) in this establishment," said the third man, who appeared a bit drunk. "No dice. We keep quiet. Don't know you. Don't know your friends."

"Suit yourself, mate." Newkirk rose from his chair and picked up his beer. A second later, he turned and threw a card onto the table. "You change your mind, give this number a ring."

"Giving up so soon?" Hogan whispered to Newkirk when the corporal returned to the table.

"Takes time, sir." Newkirk responded. "They won't respond too quickly to total strangers."

"You didn't tell them you've been away for five years?" Carter asked. "Figured once they knew you're a veteran and a POW, they'd take the bait."

Newkirk slapped his buddy on the back. "You've got a lot to learn. They probably wouldn't want to hear it. People in these parts have been suffering for years. The war was just another thing to make their life even more miserable. Besides Andrew, we're supposed to be incognito."

"We've got all night," Hogan stated. "Or at least until the final call."

"Hang, on." Newkirk had spied another group heading toward a table in the opposite corner. There were two men, middle-aged, and obviously worn out and worn down. The barkeep didn't wait to take their orders, he just drew their drafts and set them on the edge of the bar, where one picked them up, and brought them over. Neither said anything, they just drank. They swiftly emptied their drinks, and before they went up for another round, Newkirk had beaten them to it. Curious, they looked up at the young man who had delivered their next round of bitter.

"What do you want?" the older one asked. "Never seen your boat around here."

"Been away," Newkirk replied. Whether they thought he was in the war, or in jail didn't concern him. " Looking for some information."

The younger worker raised his eyebrows. "On what?" he asked, curious.

Helping out some china. Two to be exact.

"The two septics at your table?" (12)

Newkirk smiled. "You're sharp, mate." Lying about Hogan and Carter's nationality wouldn't get him anywhere. "No. Two others. They could be in trouble."

The older man gazed at Newkirk and made a snap judgment. "Just get back?" He pointed to the empty chair tucked behind the small table.

"How did ya guess mate?"

"You look like you could stand to gain a stone, at least."

"Why do you think that's not from poor rations?" Newkirk took a sip of his bitter.

"Young lad like you would be in the service. You don't look like a 4F."

"RAF," Newkirk said. I was shot down. Been in a stinking prison camp for 5 years.

The older man held out his hand. "Mike," he said. "And this is Cecil. My boy's in the Pacific."

Were they were with ya in the camp?" Cecil asked as he glanced at three men sharing a table with this Cockney lad.

"Looks like Newkirk's having better luck with those two," Hogan noted as he dug some coins out of his pocket. "Carter, can you get another round?"

The Lieutenant picked up the empty glasses and walked over to the bar; asked for more of the same, and then returned, all the while noticing the curious stares following his every move.

"Geez, Colonel. I feel more conspicuous in here than in Hamelburg."

"Just stay cool," Hogan raised his glass and seemed to examine the contents. He noticed Newkirk pulling something out of his pocket. "Bingo," he whispered. "He's showing them the picture.""

Koosman kept quiet and drank his beer. Every so often he stole a glance at the other table.

Cecil let out a whistle. "Nice looking bird. Haven't seen her."

Mike held out his hand, took the picture and examined it for a moment. He nodded. "She was in here a fortnight ago. Talking to a bloke."

"Can you describe him?"

"About 40. Light hair. Couldn't say how tall. He was here when I came in. Still here when I left. He handed her a large envelope. Then she took off."

By now, the men at the first table Newkirk had approached had been watching this exchange with interest. The one, who had chased Newkirk from the table, came over and tapped Newkirk on the shoulder. "Looking for someone?"

Mike held up the picture. "Ever seen her?"

"Been here a couple times. She in trouble?"

"She is trouble," Newkirk said.

"Give the lad a break, John. He just got home from a POW camp." Mike said. "You know her?"

John didn't need to examine the picture for very long. "Seen her a couple times meeting an older guy. They always left separately. Noticed her, because you don't see women like that hanging around these parts, unless they're looking for something or a brasser. Brass flute equals prostitute. She was wearing old clothes, but her face said West End, and her figure said money. She's been eating more than just rations."

Newkirk chuckled. "You just sounded like the first line in a bad mystery novel." John grinned sheepishly. "Did you see her leave?" he asked John.

"Headed east. I left one night at the same time. Don't know where she got to after a few blocks."

Newkirk nodded. "Ta."

"Hey. Before you leave. What did she do?"

Newkirk smiled. "Hopefully, you'll read about it in the papers."

The room was so smoky, and the air was so stale, that Hogan, who was not a heavy smoker, was beginning to feel sick. "I need some air," he told Newkirk when the corporal returned to their table.

"We can leave," Newkirk said, briefly informing the rest of the team what he had discovered. "But, first we should talk to the barkeep."

The barkeep had been following the actions of the strangers with the morbid curiosity of a man slowing down to view a car wreck. It wasn't the first time strangers had come in to his establishment and asked questions. Some of the time, they were working undercover for the police. Other times, they were the nefarious type, involved in some kind of criminal enterprise. Since the bombings, these visits had slowed down, as the police had better things to do, and the criminals were working greener pastures. He was afraid that a brawl might ensue, and was relieved that the British stranger, he had pegged the others as Americans straight off, had made conversation with a few of the regulars.

He looked up from the glass he was wiping with a very unsanitary cloth, as Newkirk approached. The corporal made no attempt to start a conversation with pleasantries, but stepped right in. "Seen this lady here with a gent. Light hair, around 40. Both well-fed."

He nodded. "They showed up here every Thursday night. Left separately. He headed west. She headed East, over on Whitechapel."

A minute later, Hogan and his team left the pub, and began a quick search around the immediate area. They found nothing suspicious, however, and due to the late hour, and the dark, he called off the search and suggested they head back to headquarters.

"I have to cancel our appointment for tomorrow," he said, disappointed.

"I'm sure Mr. Churchill will understand, Colonel," Carter said, trying to be helpful.

One of the men watching the pub offered to give them a lift back, and they settled down for a long ride back to Grosvenor square, where they decided to bed down for the night.

_HhHhh_

Back at Maria's safe house, Boswell and Garrett were still attempting to figure out a way to break of a piece of metal from the bed frame in order to try and pick the locks on their handcuffs. George was still snoozing in the living room, and his snores could be heard clearly. Maria had still not returned, although the two agents expected her to make an entrance that would have put the Wicked Witch of the West in her place. They were correct. Again, the door slammed open, and she stormed into the living room, only to see her brother neglecting his duties. She waltzed over to the sofa, and slapped George hard across the face. This amused the two captives who continued to peek into the living room to see what would happen next.

"You idiot!" she screamed as she poked her head into the bedroom, where she was rewarded with two glares. Satisfied her captives were not dead, and were still firmly locked onto the two bed frames, she returned to her brother.

"Sorry. I just dozed off a few seconds ago."

"I told you to keep an eye on them," she hissed. She walked back into the bedroom, while George followed.

"He's right, Maria," Boswell lied. "He's been in here checking on us every 10 minutes, and then when he wasn't doing that, he sat on the sofa, facing the bedroom. "We were hoping he had slept the whole time. We'd be out of here by now."

George looked at Boswell curiously, his brain trying to compute the agent's angle. It failed. In order to appease his furious sister, he decided to change the subject.

"So am I picking up the drop?" he asked eagerly.

"No. I couldn't trust you to pick up postage stamps. Besides, they probably have your description. I've made arrangements. I've got a few street boys to handle it. They can lose a tail, and they know the area like the back of their hand. Promised them each 10 quid to pick up the package."

"How do you know they won't steal it?" George asked.

"Good point." Garrett nodded. "One peek, they'll run. We have a stake in this too, you know."

"Got it covered," Maria stated. "How…is none of your business. Hopefully, this is the last night we'll spend together."

"I'm excited." Garrett turned his head and faced his partner. "You excited, Todd?"

"Thrilled."

Now it was Maria's turn to glare at the bane of her existence…the two American agents. "Oh, will you two just shut up." She marched out of the bedroom, leaving the door open. "Don't take your eyes off of them," she ordered George, who, to the chagrin of Boswell and Garrett, went into the bedroom, and plopped himself down on one of the twin beds. He paused, jumped up, and made himself a pot of coffee, then returned to the room. Meanwhile, Maria set a rare alarm clock that she was able to fix after she had found it in a pawn shop, for 0300, and then bedded down for the night on the sofa. (13)

* * *

><p>(1) King's Cross Railroad Station was in operation during the war. I don't know if there was a track nine at the time. I'm limited right now in my research capabilities. Hopefully, they won't run through a brick wall and end up on Platform 9 ¾. Otherwise, they may end up in Hogwarts.<p>

_ (2)SNAFU, FUBAR, TARFU_

_ (3)SNAFU_

_ (4) The US sent over prefab homes, during the war and afterwards. Exact figures on amount of homeless, killed and injured are back with my small research library at home. Too hard to find exact figures down here at my parent's home in Florida. Slow internet connection and stress._

_ (5) Flashlight_

_ (6) Common name for the crew's pub on the Cunard Line's ocean liners. Also name of pub in Sebastian, Florida. My dad worked on Cunard after the war._

_ (7) Jedi mind trick LOL or just command presence._

_ (8) See the pilot episode "The Informer." In Carter's first appearance, he is addressed as Lieutenant. Many stories on this site explore this. Wrote one myself._

(9) Bottle= bottle stopper = copper (police)

(10) China = china plate = mate

(11) Boat = boat race = face

(12) Septic = septic tank = Yank (slang for an American)

(13) The alarm clock. A little history courtesy of my Dad. Alarm clocks were, believe it or not, rare. They were used for the war effort, he said. Many people used the telephone company, which may have been owned by the post office, for wake-up calls. True? His long term memory is pretty good. Don't know what people did if they didn't have phones, but he said most people had them, and I quote "because England was a civilized country." I checked various memoirs on the net, and in fact, many said it was hard to get the alarm clocks. Once yours broke, I guess you were out of luck. Metals used to make them were used for the war effort.


	7. Chapter 7

_I am still in Florida. However, my mother has stabilized and we hope to move her into a nursing home tomorrow. Thanks to all of you for your support and kind words during this difficult time._

_SUSFU_

_Chapter 7_

Upon his arrival on English soil, Hochstetter was quickly transported to the London headquarters of Papa Bear's control team. The Gestapo agent refused to speak to anyone after being removed from the Belgian jail in which he was first incarcerated; although he did question what he had done to deserve such personal interest. His new handlers were as close-mouthed as he was, and they and he developed a truce on the way to London. No one spoke.

By the time he had arrived, he had a vague idea as to the reason for the interest. The file that he had stupidly buried in his cousin's yard was the catalyst, and now, he felt, perhaps his suspicions would be vindicated.

A balding British colonel with a mustache, along with a pretty stenographer, and an intelligence officer in civilian clothes, entered an interrogation room in which Hochstetter had sat shackled to a table for several hours. Upon their arrival, the two guards left the room and shut the door behind them. The colonel was, not surprisingly, carrying the file. "I'm Colonel Wembley," he said, as he opened the file, not bothering to look up at the major. Hochstetter heard the stenographer begin to take dictation, while the intelligence officer turned and nodded at a control room behind some glass. "We are taping this conversation," the colonel added. "You are Wolfgang Hochstetter. Gestapo. Equivalent rank. Major. Age 39. Born in Stuttgart. Single. Lives alone, except for a cat. Took over the Hamelburg office when the previous chief was killed. Is that correct?"

"I didn't catch his name," Hochstetter said.

"I didn't give it," the intelligence officer replied. "Answer the colonel's question."

"Yes."

"Very good. Your cooperation will be rewarded. But I will warn you, you will be prosecuted for any crimes you or your agency has committed. On the civilian population, slave labor, Jews and others removed or killed for any reason, Allied soldiers, etc and so forth."

Hochstetter wished he could rub his mustache. "You have no proof of any of these crimes."

Both Wembley and the unidentified Allied intelligence officer looked directly at the major. "Your entire country is guilty of crimes against humanity," the officer said. "Once there is a surrender, justice will be served."

"I did not commit any of these so-called crimes, and you have no proof that I collaborated in any way," Hochstetter said firmly, knowing to which crimes the Englishmen were referring. "And furthermore, I did not shoot any Allied prisoners. Try the SS. They're the guilty ones. I was just a police officer doing my job."

"Yes, well. That will be discussed at another time. Tell me major. Why were you so interested in an imprisoned American colonel." Wembley glanced at the file and pulled out a photo. "Robert Hogan? This is what some would call overkill."

Hochstetter leaned over as far as he could and whispered. "He is responsible for the most sabotage in any sector in Germany. I am confident he is the elusive Papa Bear."

Wembley and the intelligence officer looked at each and burst out laughing, while the stenographer cracked a smile.

"Excuse me, but an espionage operation run by a prisoner in a German POW camp." The intelligence officer leaned forward. "Now I've heard it all."

Their skepticism didn't faze Hochstetter, who was used to being laughed at. "It's true. I was the only one who continued the investigation. I'll tell you, he had those idiots Klink and Burkhalter fooled."

"And Burkhalter would be?" Wembley asked.

"Head of POW operations in that sector," Hochstetter said.

"Sector 6? But this was Stalag 13," the officer said as he opened a map. "Why was there another Stalag 13 near Dusseldorf? Oh, by the way, it's been liberated. And so were the camps near the other Hammelburg in Sector 13. I thought you'd like to know."

"I have no idea why there was a Luftstalag 13 up there; but that's a good question. Did they find any tunnels?"

"No major. There were no deaths at Colonel Hogan's camp. Can't say the same for the other group of prisoners. They were sent on a march." (1)

"Bah. How would you know? You weren't there. Where's Hogan?"

"That's Colonel Hogan to you, Major," Wembley snapped. "You are now our prisoner, and you will abide by military courtesy."

"Then I should be taken to a POW camp; and I'm entitled to have a senior officer present during interrogation," Hochstetter replied, knowing his rights.

"You're a political detainee right now. But we can assign you counsel if you wish."

"You're both in on this, aren't you? I know the signs." Hochstetter was becoming unglued. "In fact, I will gamble my life savings and say that you set this up. The camp. The prisoners. That idiot of a Kommandant. Unless that was an act. Yes. That's the only explanation. No one can be that stupid. And Burkhalter as well. Was he working for you? Why was Hogan not sent to an Oflag?" He snapped his fingers. "Burkhalter is Nimrod. That's logical. Maybe the whole town was involved. I should have arrested every civilian. My predecessor knew. Did you know he was my cousin? People said we looked like twins. I'll bet Hogan killed him."

"You're babbling." Wembley pointed out with a smile. "Lieutenant. Please go outside the office and have the duty sergeant request a doctor. You know which one."

"Sit back and relax, Major." The intelligence officer advised.

"I'm not insane. I know what I saw. And it was written about in the newspapers."

"Hobson? He was one of our best intelligence operatives," the intelligence officer explained. "He was sent to wreak havoc on your POW system, and the police." He chuckled. "Good man. It worked."

"He's on his way," the lieutenant announced as she walked through the door and took her seat.

"I don't need a doctor." Hochstetter opened and closed his fists in frustration.

"Look, Hochstetter. We're closing in your precious Third Reich. We've heard a lot of excuses. But this one takes the cake."

"At least he hasn't said he was just following orders," Wembley pointed out.

"Have you read the file?" Hochstetter asked. "Look at all the sabotage, the destroyed weapons, and the missing downed fliers. I don't believe in coincidences."

"Of course we've read the file. Interesting reading. It would make a great movie." Wembley stroked his mustache. "You know, I've never met this Colonel Hogan. Perhaps if he stops here after being released from the hospital at our rest camp on the French coast, I will have the honor of meeting him."

Hochstetter swallowed hard, not sure he believed the British officer. "He's in the hospital?" he asked warily.

"Yes. Apparently quite a few prisoners are recuperating from malnutrition, respiratory illnesses, and gastrointestinal problems. That's despite a good report from Colonel Hogan. The German staff was generally humane. But not to worry." Wembley patted Hochstetter's right hand. "The medical staff is sure they will all recover."

Hochstetter's face was turning beet red as the doctor knocked and opened the door.

"Ah, very good, Captain." Wembley returned the physician's salute. "Our prisoner appears to be delusional. Perhaps a psychiatric examination is in order?"

"I'm not crazy," Hochstetter screamed.

"No one said you were." The doctor motioned to two burly guards, who entered the interrogation room. "Are you finished with the interrogation?"

"For now," the intelligence officer said as he stood. He nodded at the guards who unshackled the Gestapo major and handcuffed his arms behind him.

"I'll prove that I'm right. You'll be sorry," were Hochstetter's last words as the guards dragged him off. The psychiatrist nodded politely at the two other officers and left.

"You may go type up the notes, Lieutenant," Wembley said.

After the stenographer left, the two men stared at the file for a moment, still disturbed by how close Hochstetter had come to outing the operation.

"A thousand men would have been executed or sent to concentration camps," Wembley said softly.

"They were all volunteers," Grote, the intelligence officer, reminded him.

"It would have been impossible for Hogan to transfer everyone out; especially those poor infantrymen captured these last few months." Wembley shook his head. "When Robert sees this file, he'll have a coronary."

"Then we best hold off. At least until he meets with the Prime Minister." Grote grinned.

Wembley chuckled. "This would make a good movie. If Hochstetter is ever a free man again, and comes to his senses, I'll bet he uses his memories to write a script."

* * *

><p>(1) found a great website on the real location. scroll down and on the left you'll find a section on POW camps. Click on Stalag 13 and scroll down to see pictures. At the bottom click on history. After the failure of Task Force Baum, the captured members, as well as the rest of the prisoners were sent on a march. Only the soldiers in the infirmary remained. "On April 6, 1945, the 47th Tank Battalion liberated Lager Hammelburg without a fight." The conditions in these camps were deplorable. There were smaller work camps, and perhaps this is why the producerswriters picked the location. I still think they wanted to use the number 13 because of its connotation.

_ "In the summer of 1940, the southern end of the camp was prepared for prisoners of war from the enlisted ranks. The camp was called Stammlager XIII C, or Stalag XIII C for short, and wooden barracks were built to house POWs of a variety of nationalities._

_The first to arrive were the Belgian and French soldiers captured during the Blitzkrieg of 1940._

_In 1941, Serbian, Polish and Russian soldiers joined them after battles on the eastern front. Eventually, British, Italian and American soldiers were also held in Stalag 13 C._

_The Lager held over 30,000 POW's, with the Russians as the largest group. As required by the Geneva Convention, different nationalities were housed separately._

_Junior enlisted prisoners, corporal and below, were required to work. These POW's were assigned to work units in neighboring factories, farms and forests. They lived outside the camp and were guarded by a battalion of Home Guards (Landschützen)._

_The **real** Kommandants of Stalag 13 between 1940 and 1945 were Lieutenant Colonel von Crailsheim, Colonel Franck and Colonel Westmann."_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Author's note: I goofed. By the time Hogan and company were searching in the East End, the blackout had mostly been lifted. After posting the last chapter, I realized that I had never actually checked on the dates. From the website: homesweethomefrontdotcodotuk **_

_**This is a revised chapter. I would like to thank Konarciq for cleaning it up, and adding some worthwhile descriptions and editing.**_

_SUSFU_

_Chapter 8_

While the majority of London's population slept, a multinational bunch of spies and ex-POW's were beginning their day. At OSS headquarters in Grosvenor Street, Hogan and his men were told in no uncertain terms that their services were not required at the scheduled ransom pick-up point at King's Cross. They would be better off continuing their search for Boswell and Garrett in the East End. Seeing as Maria may have had a description of Colonel Hogan given to her by any number of Germans, or worse, a photo, the group from Stalag 13 reluctantly agreed, and headed off in the early morning hours towards Whitechapel.

Meanwhile, Koosman, Seaver, other members of the OSS, plainclothes detectives from Scotland Yard, and a group of male and female agents from MI6 swarmed all over King's Cross and its environs in hopes of tailing whoever was sent to pick up the ransom.

Back at Special Ops, Hochstetter spent the night in a drugged stupor; the psychiatrist fearing a stroke or worse, as the German was extremely agitated. Investigations into possible crimes would continue in the next few days. Intelligence was hopeful that Hochstetter would become an asset, and rat out his own countrymen to the Allies. As to his suspicions about Stalag 13: Wembley was going to try and get fake pictures and newspaper clippings from the Lucky Strike camp to prove to Hochstetter that Hogan and company were just normal prisoners. While Hogan and his main team had been there with the rest of the liberated men, they had left after several days. Fortunately, none of them were as ill as Wembley had said. In fact, when Wembley had met with the five of them, he thought they looked better than anticipated, having seen newsreels and other reports from the front. He had asked to be kept informed about the search for Boswell and Garrett, and then settled in for his workday.

Boswell and Garrett spent another uncomfortable night in captivity, although they tried to look on the bright side. As Garrett said, they weren't dodging Allied bombs in Berlin, or V2 rockets in London at the moment, so things were looking up. They remained unfed and shackled to the bedframes, while George watched. Maria left the flat at 0400, leaving the three of them nervously anticipating what would happen next.

Disguised as an older man, Maria arrived at King's Cross fifteen minutes before the hour. She took her position and watched. Not surprisingly, she thought she had managed to spot several agents outside the train station, as well as a few more inside. None of them were from her office, and she surmised that these men were from other agencies. She made sure she was hidden and waited. Several minutes before 0500, an old woman dropped a package inside a trash bin on Track 9. She quickly left. Maria sighed in relief, as she was normally a pessimist, and feared that she would either be spotted, or that the OSS would renege on their promise.

A disguised Koosman and Seaver kept their eyes open for the female spy. Everyone was in position, both inside and out. At exactly 0500, a small boy in ratty clothes approached the trash bin, and pulled out the package. He didn't run, but took off at a quick pace towards the main waiting area.

"A kid. Damn." Koosman hurried after him, being careful to stay back. Others followed, while Seaver notified the men and women outside that the drop had been picked up by a child. Maria followed the group from behind, and then slipped out of the station, and watched for the next pick-up.

The kid was running a relay race. He handed off the package to another boy, and then ran off. The new carrier turned south towards Farrington Road. He ducked in and out of side streets, as the group of agents tried to keep up. This leg lasted for quite a while as he turned east towards Smithfield, where a V2 rocket that fell on March 8th had hit; killing scores of people. The area was still a mess, and the child was gaining ground on his pursuers. He suddenly turned south towards St Paul's, its dome reflecting the light, as once again, the sun rose over the great city. "He's heading south towards The City of London," a Scotland Yard officer reported into a radio. The numerous police presence located in the area was forewarned, and they were told to look out for a young lad in tattered clothing holding a large package.

"How many young lads in tattered clothing do you think are out here?" one bobby said to another after being notified by their sergeant.

The other bobby shook his head. "I wonder what he has done to deserve such attention. He's probably just another orphan living on the streets." (1)

The bobby was correct. Maria's group of children resembled something out of _Oliver Twist_. She had recruited a preteen she had found living on the streets. For quite a while she had often slipped him some coins or food, not out of the kindness of her heart, but to assure his cooperation in the future for whatever task she may need him. This proved to be a useful relationship, and the lad had recruited more East End children for the operation. Promises of adventure and some money, easily convinced the group to play along, and so the relay route was born. And now the boy hurried around St. Paul's and ducked behind some sandbags, handing off the package to another lad.

Pitney, one of the MI6 agents, spotted the handoff and increased his pace. The new carrier seemed small and thin, but certainly street smart. How old could he be – ten, twelve perhaps? Or older? It was so hard to tell nowadays, with everyone looking so thin.

The boy looked back, an impudent little smile playing around his lips. Clearly he had been forewarned that he would be followed. It was likely however that it'd only increase his enjoyment of the game.

He quickly took off in the direction of the still-operating tube station, where dozens of early commuters were going down the stairs already at this early hour – enough of a crowd for him to be able to hide among them.

"Come on!" Pitney gestured to his nearest companions, and they hurried towards the tube entrance as well.

But although they arrived at the platform only moments after him, already the boy seemed to have vanished into thin air. The train hadn't pulled in yet, so he couldn't have gone far. But he was nowhere to be found on the platform, and no one in the public recalled seeing a specific young lad in tattered clothes carrying a large package just now either.

"We've lost him," Pitney told his fellow agents dejectedly. "He must have crawled through a vent or something." He then waited for another agent to head towards them with the radio so he could file his report.

"Damn." Koosman looked at Seaver. All hope of finding their friends was now left in the hands of the former POWs searching the East End. That is, if the boy was headed that way indeed.

* * *

><p>Newkirk stood at a corner in Whitechapel several blocks away from the Pig and Whistle. He spun around and tried to get his bearings, as landmarks were no longer standing.<p>

"This was where the last V2 rocket hit," said Johnson, the British agent who was with them, explained quietly. "It was less than a month ago. It hit a large building complex – Hughes Mansions. 134 people were killed."

Newkirk gulped. "Well, I suppose they'll raze the area and rebuild." He tried to look at the bright side. "Did you know they hit Buckingham Palace and the House of Commons?" he asked Carter.

"We heard," Carter replied unusually quiet, looking at the devastation around him without really being able to take it in. To think that this was just one part of one city. Imagine that all over Europe, hundreds of towns, cities and villages lay in ruins like this. Ghostly. Abandoned. Ruined. Dead. Those poor people who lived here... How lucky he was to be from the States, where he never had had to fear for his family's safety from bombs and rockets.

"How about we head that way," Hogan said, pointing southeast and deliberately cutting through the heavy tension. "They can't possibly be back this way. There's nothing there."

"No," Johnson disagreed. "We can't leave any stone unturned. The children could be anywhere." The group followed him, checked over the area, and after finding nothing, headed the way Hogan had suggested.

"C'mon, buddy." Carter tapped Newkirk on the back.

"Right. Let's follow our escort," Hogan commanded. The other two obediently hurried after Johnson, who stood still and glanced down a street.

"This was checked out." He pulled out a map and studied the markings. As he was about to choose another location his walkie-talkie beeped. "Go ahead."

"We're at the pub," was the response. "The package was lost. It was picked up by a child and handed off. The last one disappeared into the tube system, probably underground. We're still searching and sending reinforcements down your way. Keep to your grid."

"That's just dandy. Who would use children to handle this?" Hogan shook his head.

"They don't care who they hurt, sir," Johnson sighed.

Newkirk sighed, too, recalling his childhood. "Those kids know the streets, and can vanish more easily than an adult."

More residents were coming out of the woodwork. Some swept the rubble in an attempt to clean off a small part of their world, while others began walking in different directions, heading for the nearest bus or tube in order to get to work. Most were women of various ages, and older men.

Meanwhile, the little group continued heading towards the dock area, marking off streets on their search grid and looking for anything suspicious.

"This is like looking for a needle in a haystack," Carter complained. "This city is too big. And can't they make straight streets here, like in the US? Why is everything so crooked?"

Newkirk shrugged. "Don't blame us - blame the ancient Romans. They're the ones who made the original lay-out of the City."

"They did? Gee!" Carter's voice now held clear reverence. "I had no idea London was that old!"

"You bet it is. A bustling trading post this was already back then. And it's remained that way for over 2000 years by now – and I promise you, it will remain that way for 2000 years to come. I bet you Yanks have nothing to compare that with, do you?"

"Never mind that now - we've got other problems on our mind." Hogan's eyes were sharp as he answered. "Our first clue is the pub. Crooked streets or not, chances are good they're in this area. So let's find them."

"Let's go then," Newkirk sighed, but Carter suddenly exclaimed, "Hey, look over there. Isn't that LeBeau?"

Indeed it was. LeBeau, along with several other men from headquarters, approached the group.

"No luck?" he asked.

"Not yet," Hogan replied. "What are you doing down here?"

"How do you say it? I tagged along. Kinch went over to see Colonel Wembley to help with some paperwork. Thought I could lend a hand."

"The more the merrier," Johnson grinned. "You four can take over the next grid. We'll continue heading southeast." He handed one of the other agents a map, who took notes and crossed off already checked streets on his map. "If anything looks suspicious, get backup."

"Right. We'll rendezvous back near the pub at noon," the escort said.

The methodical search continued.

* * *

><p>(1) Unfortunately this was not an impossible occurrence. Many children had returned to London during the phony war, and numerous families couldn't bear to be separated. Some of them had to have been living on the streets.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

_Sorry for the delay in posting this next chapter. As you all know (those who have been reading this story), my personal life is a mess right now. I'm heading back down to Florida in a few weeks to check on my parents again. Anyway, in chapter 8 (which was reposted after some editing help from Konarciq), the ransom was dropped off in King's Cross. However, Maria had recruited a bunch of boys to pick it up, and the boys were able to lose the tail. Hogan and company, as well as some escorts from intelligence and Scotland Yard. headed to the East End to help search for the hide-out. Kinch headed over to HQ to meet with Wembley, and LeBeau headed out with some other men to help with the search. Thanks to ColHogan for a quick proofreading job, and I am crossing my fingers that this makes sense..._

_SUSFU 9_

It had taken the boys five hours to shake the police, and have the last leg in the chain make his way down to the rendezvous point by the Tower of London. Out of breath, the boy shyly approached the woman who had promised a generous reward for safely delivering the package.

"Lost them, miss," he reported as Maria took a quick peek in the envelope. "Smithy took another route with another envelope, just like you suggested. They were chasing two of us."

Satisfied, she handed the lad a key to a locker at Waterloo station. "Your reward is in there. There is enough for everyone."

"Thank you, miss." The lad tore off and headed back north towards the station.

Maria grinned. _Argentina, here we come._ Now all she had to do was return to her safe house, pick up her brother, and leave. She had no intention of releasing the two spies. Nor did she plan on phoning the OSS as to Boswell and Garrett's whereabouts. Once she and George left, their captives were on their own. She figured they'd be eventually found, but by then she and George would be long gone. Their ride had already been notified. The captain of the small boat docked along the river would be expecting them this evening, and was not interested in why they were heading to Ireland; only that he be paid handsomely to transport them there and keep quiet. Yes, Maria thought. She now felt more optimistic about her future.

This time, Maria's entrance into the flat was more muted. She opened the door and waltzed in, happy to see that George had paid attention, and had not taken his eyes off the two hostages.

"Well, look who it is. Mata Hari." Boswell weakly said.

"Oh, joy." Garrett replied. "Bring me something?" Hungry and dehydrated, he was beginning to feel dizzy. He had last eaten over two days ago, when he and Maria had been at the pub. He briefly watched Maria come closer, and hoped that she would be within striking distance of his bound feet. What good it would do, he didn't know, but fighting back again was worth a shot. Unfortunately, she was respectful of the agent's training, so she kept a good distance.

"Well?" her brother asked.

She dumped the contents on the bed, eliciting a whistle from all three men.

"Never thought they'd do it," Garrett said shaking his head. "So you're letting us go."

"Leave you alone, yes. Letting you go, no. Don't trust you. Start counting, George."

"How do you know they're not counterfeit?" Boswell looked up and smiled, trying to get a rise out of the female agent.

George was wondering the same thing as he grabbed a piece of paper and a stubby pencil. "Yeah, Maria. How do we know it's not counterfeit?"

Maria pulled apart a stack of bills and examined them closely. "Looks perfect. Besides, they wouldn't take the chance."

"Does the sentence you'll never get away with this mean anything to you?" Boswell said, sarcasm dripping all over his words.

Maria just smiled an evil grin. "Will the sentence shut up or I'll blow your brains out sink into that handsome head of yours?" she retorted as she patted Boswell's head.

He shrunk away. "In that case, I hope your boat sinks and you end up as fish-food."

"George, gag them again. They're getting tiresome."

George did so, and then asked his sister when they could leave.

"As soon as it gets dark," she replied. "About 9." She began stuffing the ransom money back into the bag.

"What are we going to do until then?" George complained. "It's almost another twelve hours." He passed a stack of bills over to his sister, and then made a mark on the paper. "Oh, and we're out of food."

"Mmmph." Garrett attempted to make conversation through the now smelly and grubby cloth stuffed into his mouth, and tied around his neck. "Mmmph." His partner, meanwhile, had closed his eyes; leaning his head against the edge of the mattress.

George reached over and removed the man's gag. "What do you want?"

"Water." Garrett didn't want to beg, but he didn't want to die of dehydration if it took days for someone to find them trussed up in the house. Considering that George was willing to shoot both of them out of annoyance earlier, he wasn't expecting any humanity out of the brute, but figured it was worth a try. George surprised the two Americans, however, as he wordlessly walked out of the bedroom, through the living room and into the kitchen, while Maria took over the counting duties. "I'd be happy to count those for you," Garrett offered. "You see, I won a math award when I was twelve. Always been good at counting."

Boswell opened his eyes and nodded in agreement.

Maria glared at the two and then returned her attention to the object of her desire...cold hard cash. George returned and offered Garrett a few sips of water; then did the same for Boswell, placing the gags back when they finished.

"You didn't answer my question," George whispered to his sister a few moments later as they finished the counting, swept up the loot, and left the bedroom.

"We lay low and quiet. Nothing suspicious. No sudden moves. In fact…Maria walked over to the window and opened the blackout curtains. "Having these closed would look odd. Not that anyone's been down here for ages."

"They checked for squatters here a few days ago." George reminded her. "But our rental papers were in order and they left." He thought for a moment and then asked. "Do you think they were suspicious?"

"Those were just local wardens. They wouldn't have anything to do with intelligence. This city's size is our ticket out. Too much going on, too big, and too much damage. Serves them right for what they're doing to our cities."

Boswell wanted to give Maria a history lesson on who started the war, but the gag prevented him from speaking. Of course, he was not a fan of terrorizing civilians. Appalled at the human suffering caused by both sides, he hoped that humans could learn something from this war, and come together in some fashion to prevent another disaster. Thinking back to the war to end all wars, he shuddered. _That didn't work very well. _Tired of thinking philosophical thoughts and recalling history, he closed his eyes again and tried to take a few breaths through the cloth. His cold prevented him from totally filling his lungs, and he held back a cough.

"As I said," we're out of food," George reminded his sister.

"I completely forgot about that," she shook her head. "Go out and get something we can take with us. But don't shop near here. Go up to one of the big markets. Less chance you'll be spotted. Come right back." She handed him a ration booklet and some cash.

"Should I get anything for them?" George nodded towards the bedroom.

"No."

Both agents had given up long ago of opening the cuffs. Garrett wondered if there was any way one of them could physically slide off the bed frame. His hands would still be cuffed behind him, but at least he would be mobile. He hadn't tried this in training, but figured he had nothing to lose. While Maria was in the other room, and George had left, Garrett began nodding towards Boswell, who had again opened his eyes. The agent motioned with his cuffed arms toward the top of the bed, hoping his gagged comrade would understand. He uncomfortably lay down as best he could, swinging his body so that his bent head hit the bottom of the mattress, and his torso was directly underneath the bed, parallel to the frame. This wasn't the first time he had hidden under a bed, but this was the first time he wished he had trained as a contortionist. Now, he hoped that he would be able to bend his knees and use the strength of his legs to lift the bed. Boswell did the same. The two remained quiet for a few agonizing minutes, and then both raised their knees and pushed with their feet.

Hogan and his crew continued to check each street, marking each off on a map, as their search grid got smaller and smaller. They were not having any luck, and neither were the other search teams. They began heading southeast towards the docks, where damage was really widespread. The docks were hit early in the war, so the clean-up efforts had made some progress. As they trudged through the area, Newkirk took extra time, examining each building, pile of debris, and the passersby, for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. He spoke with workers and the few residents as they began their day, his accent and use of slang developing a bond with the Londoners that the other men in his group lacked.

Around Wapping High Street, which had been heavily bombed, the group stopped. Hogan and his men lacked the stamina of the British agents accompanying them, and Johnson suggested they rest.

"Where are we, Newkirk?" Carter asked as he gratefully accepted a few biscuits, and a hot cup of tea from Johnson's thermos.

"We're in the borough of Tower Hamlets." Newkirk took on the look of either a schoolmaster, or tour guide, depending on one's point of view. "Just east of the City of London. You know, this area is so historical, I don't know where to begin. Without asking, he began a short lecture. (1)

As Newkirk finished, Hogan and Carter stood gape-mouthed, and then Hogan grinned. "I hope there's no quiz at the end. I didn't take notes."

Newkirk chuckled. "Sorry, guv'nor. Got carried away."

"I think you have the makings of a tour guide, son," said one of the British detectives accompanying the search party.

"I can't imagine we will be having a lot of tourists down this way for a while," (2) Newkirk replied as he took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. The weather this April, so far at least, had been unusually mild and dry for London and after years in a cold German POW camp, plus the fickle and wet British climate, Newkirk was feeling the heat. Johnson, who had checked in with the other search parties, returned with the announcement that the groups would reconnoiter at a central location, eat, and compare notes.

"We should head over to Baker Street," Carter joked, as he and Newkirk trudged along, bringing up the rear

"Very funny."

"Actually, it isn't." Carter looked thoughtful. "Maybe we're going about this all the wrong way. Instead of looking at the big picture and trying to make our way through it, we should do what Holmes would do."

"Drugs?" Newkirk asked.

"No," Carter said, ignoring Newkirk's comment. "Looking at small clues and extrapolating information from them. Logic, deductive reasoning, etcetera."

"Well, Carter. We're not detectives. Not like our friends here." Newkirk pointed at the British policemen trailing behind.

Hogan heard the conversation and held back so the two could catch up. "He's got a point. Maybe we are spending too much time searching, and not enough time thinking."

The rest of the entourage joined the three. "I heard that you were quite the devil when it came to plots and plans, Colonel." Johnson smiled.

"Convoluted is my middle name." Hogan smiled back.

"I thought it was Edward," Carter mumbled.

"It's a saying." Newkirk shook his head. "All right, Andrew. So we stop looking, and start putting two and two together. From what?"

Once Hogan's group had met up with the other searchers, they all compared notes and then decided to continue with Carter's plan. In fact, Carter became the official note-taker.

"An accomplice. Man. Late 20's, blonde, close to 6 feet tall, according to the witness. An unmarked, white lorry." Johnson paused as he noticed LeBeau raising his hand.

"Was it clean or dirty?" The Frenchman asked. "Soot could give us an idea of where it might be parked, or the areas it is usually driven."

Johnson shook his head. "No information about that. We don't even have a plate or make. All we have is the receipt, and the direction she headed after leaving the pub."

"She obviously wants to leave the country." Hogan turned toward Johnson. "Where do you think she'll make her break? Water or rail?"

As the group continued, for the umpteenth time, to go over the small amount of information they had, Newkirk, who wasn't as optimistic about Holmes' method for this case, anyway, glanced out the window. They were in a busier area a few blocks north, and buses were running a bit more often along the road. An iconic double-decker red bus began to slow down to pull up to the curb, where the usual group of well-organized Londoners, queued patiently, awaiting their turn to board. As the line remained still, an anomaly entered Newkirk's peripheral vision. Without saying a word to his colleagues, the Londoner snuck out of the tea shop, and watched. A man, he couldn't tell from the distance, how old, had committed a carnal sin; for an Englander that is. He tried to jump the queue to get on the bus. In fact, he didn't even know how to board. Newkirk quickly went to the end of the line, and hopped on. The man had pushed his way on, to the glares and grumbling of other passengers, and had climbed up top. Newkirk had seen enough to know that he would recognize the figure when the line-breaker would disembark. He purchased a ticket to the end of the route, and waited patiently.

"What do you think of using a boat, Newkirk?" Hogan strained to see where the corporal had disappeared to, and at seeing him missing, asked, incredulously, "Where did he go?"

"He got up suddenly, sir. Left and hopped on a bus," said the girl who had brought them their lunch.

"Do you know what bus?" Johnson asked.

"No, sir. There are several routes along this road."

"Do you think he spotted her?"

"Maybe. He wouldn't want to scare her off, so he took off after her on his own."

"I doubt it. She'd be taking an awful risk going out and about. Even if she didn't know we think she's in this area."

"Something or somebody got his notice," Hogan said as he, followed by the rest of the search party, hurried out of the shop. "But I'm still going to kill him for not bringing back-up."

A woman was talking Newkirk's ear off on the bottom portion of the bus. "Imagine that? Thinks he can just jump the queue, just like that, and hop on, like he owns the bus. The bloomin' cheek. Doesn't belong in this area. Mark my words."

"I think you're correct, madam." Newkirk said with all the charm he could muster.

The woman smiled. "You home from the war, then?"

"You're very observant."

"I can tell." She patted his hand. "You have that look about you. Seen things young ones like you shouldn't have. You were in the Navy?"

"No. RAF. I was in a POW camp. Just got back."

"You poor dear. But you're home now; safe and sound. My grandson is in the RAF as well. But he's a mechanic."

"They keep the planes running. We'd be nowhere without the support staff." Newkirk said in all honesty.

"Oh aren't you a dear. My granddaughter is in service. She's a nurse here in London." The woman pulled a photo out of her handbag. "Isn't she lovely? Not taken, yet."

"Yes, madam." Newkirk sighed.

"You're a handsome one. You must be married?" The woman gave Newkirk a look, daring him to tell a lie about his availability.

Newkirk held back a laugh and then thought _this is going to be a long ride._

* * *

><p>(1)Newkirk's lecture can be found on Wikipedia and numerous other websites. Just search Wapping High street. I chose the street while looking at a map of the area. Lots of good history there.<p>

(2) Newkirk would be thrilled to know that the 2012 Olympics were held in venues all over the East End of London. (as other parts of the city as well.) The area never fully recovered from the war. (one thing NBC did get right...)


	10. Chapter 10

_SUSFU_

_Chapter 10_

Hogan and his crew headed for the stop outside the café, and tried to figure out which bus Newkirk had hopped on. As the girl in the shop had said, several routes passed by this area, and their trail went cold. "I suggest we head back to HQ in case your man calls," Johnson said as they stood and scratched their heads.

"What did Newkirk see?" Hogan wondered.

Carter had pondered the same question. "Elementary, sir," he said to his commanding officer. "He followed my suggestion about Holmes, and observed his surroundings. He saw something; possibly minute; but telling none the less."

"About what, Carter?" Hogan asked as he briefly imagined Carter in a trench coat, wearing a deerstalker and smoking a pipe. The image made the corners of his mouth turn up a bit in a small smile.

"Like you said before, something or someone had gotten his attention. Something or someone out of the ordinary. I doubt Maria would be showing herself in broad daylight. So…my guess would be the elusive accomplice. I recommend at least some of us stay in this area. If the person Newkirk set off after needed the bus to go somewhere, there's a good chance he will need a ride back."

Hogan nodded. "I agree. But, Carter. Why are you speaking in a British accent?"

HhHhH

George was happy to get out of the house. He had not had some fresh air and a decent meal since he and Maria had kidnapped the two Americans and deposited them in their hide-out. He lazily lit a cigarette and taking a few deep inhalations, looked out the window and enjoyed the view. It was mainly dust and rubble, with a few buildings miraculously standing here and there, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. The red, iconic double-decker bus was one of the few things in England he liked. That and pub food. He hated hiding out, and hated being away from Germany. Born and bred in America, he and Maria had gone back to the home country with their parents in the late 20's. The Abwehr had their eye on his sister for quite a while, and she began training for her sleeper work in the early 30's, just after Hitler came to power. George had taken several courses as well, and managed, with her help, to get assigned to London. His orders; keep up the safe house and stay out of sight. He knew the two were fortunate they were never caught, and he would have preferred to have stayed out of the limelight and not take the last, dangerous risk his sister had decided upon. But his sister had insisted, and he never won an argument. He sighed as he people-watched. _Why didn't she just stay with the OSS and go back to the states.__ I could have been a refugee or something and gone back. Mom and Dad are probably dead anyway._ Once settled in California, he figured there were plenty of criminal enterprises to delve into that would keep him occupied. George hated the rain, and figured he might as well go for sunshine. Not being a geography freak, he had no idea what Argentina's weather was like, nor what he would do down there, as he didn't speak a word of Spanish.

Newkirk's ride was thankfully cut short. The bus came to a halt at an intersection that was completely cordoned off due to an unexploded bomb. The conductor cheerfully told the passengers that they needed to disembark and walk back to another intersection and seek alternate transportation. "Unless you wish to help the UXB squad," he teased.

No one took up that offer, and the passengers obediently left the vehicle. Newkirk made it out before his quarry, and he waited by a building for the man to get off.

_I was right_, Newkirk said to himself as he got a closer look. _It must be the accomplice._ He wished there was a way to contact someone to let them know what had happened, but he didn't want to chance losing the suspect, so he took off. One thing he hadn't forgotten was how to follow someone; a skill he had learned during his pick pocketing days. His mark headed around the corner, stood and scratched his head. He looked both ways, and deciding on a direction, headed north, on the way to one of London's famous street markets, Brick Lane.

George had been to many of London's markets. He preferred the ones in the better part of town…Portabello road, with its antiques, was his favorite, but Brick Lane was close, and easier to get to, except for the unexpected detour that is. It was not that far from the safe house, but far enough. He was uncomfortable with all the Jews in the area, but his mission was to get supplies, and get back to the safe house.

On the other hand, Newkirk was very comfortable with the ethnic make-up of the market. However, he wasn't there to schmooze with the locals; his purpose was to follow his mark, and not give himself away; although he couldn't help notice the bleak offerings at the food stalls, and the drab clothing of both the shoppers and the customers. He warded off the offerings of the sellers as he wound his way around the stalls and the crowds. Housewives with their ration books tried their best to put together what they could for their families, as he spied his quarry using some cash to pick up what most people could not afford on their own. That infuriated the corporal as he recalled his shock at seeing his parents and sister when he had returned to the area a few days ago. They had lost weight, and were wearing clothes and shoes he had last seen before the war. The clothes had been mended several times over. His sister's normally wavy and glossy hair had thinned and lost some of its shine. The British city dwellers had suffered and it made him angry, as they had no means of fighting back. He put aside his feelings, as he had a job to do. As he managed to get a better look at the man he was following, Newkirk noticed the shoes. They were almost new and still held a shine. His clothes were in good shape as well. _If this is the bloke we're after,_ he thought, _he still has some explaining to do. _There were a lot of well-off people in London, he knew. Correspondents, American officers, diplomats, and wealthy refugees were having a very different war than the natives…although some were killed in air raids, most ate better and lived better than the rest of the population. Why this person had been in the area he was in was suspicious. Newkirk had a gut feeling, and he was going to follow his instinct.

He deftly hid in doorways and next to buildings as he followed the man through the market and out again to the street corner where the bus had let them off. The bomb squad was still working, and the area was still cordoned off. The man crossed the street and calmly stood among several other people waiting for a bus. Newkirk held back, not wanting to get too close to his prey, and only moved nearby as he saw a bus approach. It was not the same number as the bus he had taken before, and this time the man did not cut the line, as he was at the head, with the people nicely queued behind him. Newkirk slid to the end and again, took a seat on the bottom. This time the bus was not crowded and he thankfully had the seat to himself. As the last time, the man had taken the top. Newkirk settled in for the ride, keeping one eye out the window and one on the stairs at the back.

HhHhH

After conferring with headquarters, LeBeau and his team returned to the West End, while Hogan, Carter and Johnson stayed in the area. They split up, but remained within each other's range of vision as they scanned the crowds and the buses that traveled the route; hoping for a return of their team member and the person of interest. Otherwise, as Johnson noted, the person could be anywhere, as the bus route traveled quite a distance. Their search was interrupted an hour later by a loud boom.

HhHhH

Newkirk's bus stopped dead in the street, the driver slamming on the brakes, spilling most of the passengers out of their seats. Newkirk found himself pinned underneath an older gentleman who smelled like sawdust, and a young WAAC that he had tried very hard not to notice, as he was concentrating on his task.

"Oh, my." The woman calmly rolled to her feet and pulled down her skirt. "Are you hurt?" she asked the man on top of Newkirk.

"No, miss." He, too, scrambled to his feet.

"You, sir?" she asked Newkirk.

"Nothing a cup of tea won't cure." He grinned and rolled over. "Sounded like that bomb exploded." He said a quick prayer for the UXB squad that was working on the explosive, hoping that they and any passersby weren't killed.

"Anybody hurt back here?" The conductor yelled as the WAAC began checking the other passengers.

"There's a bunch up top," Newkirk recalled. Without hesitation, he and the young woman hurried up the stairs, as people on the sidewalk began taking stock of their injuries. Fortunately, the concussion only caused a few bruises.

There were 7 passengers on the top of the bus, and they had not fared as well as the group in the lower part of the bus. Several had been thrown to the floor, and were in shock. This time, Newkirk had no choice but to get close to his quarry, who had managed to crawl back on top of his seat. He looked a little mussed up, and confused.

Thinking the man's state could work to his advantage, Newkirk knelt and quietly asked. "Are you all right, mate? Anything I can do?"

George shook his head, which was ringing from the sound of the explosive. The motion made him feel nauseous and he turned a bit pale. He grabbed the back of the seat in front of him and groaned.

"Easy there," Newkirk said kindly. "You may have a concussion."

Several bobbies and a warden entered the top, while an ambulance siren could be heard in the distance.

Meanwhile, the WAAC was comforting and checking on the people towards the back.

"I like riding up top," Newkirk could hear an older woman say. "As long as I 'ave two good legs, I like to see what's 'appening. Look, dearie. I'm fine. Just some bumps and bruises."

The WAAC smiled and walked towards where Newkirk was still kneeling. "You all right there, sir?"

"I ...uh. I think so," George replied.

"I think he was banged up a bit." Thinking quickly, as he didn't want his quarry taken away in an ambulance, Newkirk added. "I have some free time. I'd be happy to escort him home and see that he is safe. You did say there was family at home?"

George, confused, nodded.

The WAAC looked skeptical, as she could see that the passenger was confused, pale and shaken. "Are you sure you don't wish to go to hospital?"

"No," George shook his head; a bit slower this time. His brain felt like it was being tossed back and forth like a buoy in heavy seas. His sister would eventually hunt him down and kill him if he failed to appear. He decided to accept the stranger's offer of an escort, as he didn't think he could manage the walk back to the safe house himself. He had his gun, and so if there was a problem and the stranger insisted on entering the house, he would be taken care of, although, George wasn't sure he could still shoot straight. "I accept your offer…Sorry, your name."

"Peter."

"George."

"Up you go." Newkirk offered George a hand. As the German agent steadied himself, Newkirk turned to the WAAC. "Thank you, miss, for your help." He smiled.

She smiled back. "No,_ thank you_. You're home for good?"

Newkirk nodded. "Injury," he lied. Suddenly, he reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper, and a pencil stub. "I know this is a bit forward, but if you aren't…uh…with someone…and if you're free, perhaps you'd like to take in a film." He jotted down his parents' phone number and his first name. "I should be there in a few days." To his utter shock, the WAAC took the paper.

She reached into her purse. "May I have your pencil?" She jotted down her number and handed it back to Newkirk. "I might like that."

"This is really, really touching," George complained. "But I have family at home that will worry. They may have heard about the blast."

"Right. Easy down those stairs now." Newkirk steadied George as the injured man held on to the railing for dear life; both breathing a sigh of relief as they successfully mastered the staircase and rested for a bit on the sidewalk next to the bus. "Which way, George?"

George pointed, as sweat rolled down his back, and nausea continued to play games with his digestive system. It wasn't until they were several blocks from the bus, which had evacuated all its shaken passengers and continued on its route, that he realized that he had left all the food on his seat. _Cripes. I have a concussion and no food._

He didn't have a gun either, as Newkirk had successfully removed the weapon without George noticing while he was helping him off the bus. No man of George's ilk would be carrying a concealed weapon, and Newkirk was now 100 percent sure he had made the right decision. He had the accomplice.

HhHhH

Boswell and Garrett's escape plan had so far been an exercise in frustration and futility. Not only was physics working against them; they weren't getting any younger and their bodies were not that supple. In addition, they had to be careful not to make any sudden noises. Several times, they had to rearrange their bodies to take a rest. Several other times, they had to quickly maneuver themselves to appear asleep when they heard Maria move around the living room. Now they luckily heard noise coming from the bathroom, including to their delight, water running into the bath. How Maria had managed to get running water and electricity into the house, considering the damage on the rest of the street, was the furthest thing on their mind, as they again took the opportunity to attempt an escape. They quickly moved, and again pushed against the frame.

_Come on,_ Garrett prayed. _Just an inch._

Boswell, who was still sick, felt he no longer continue the physical exertion. However, he gave it one last effort. To his and Garrett's amazement, the bed lifted, and Garrett was able to slip his cuffed hands off the leg of the bed frame. The frame dropped suddenly, making a clumping sound on the floor. The two men froze for a second, but the running water covered the noise, and for a few moments at least…they figured they were safe.


	11. Chapter 11

_SUSFU_

_Chapter 11_

_I never thought this would work_. Garrett was frankly amazed at his ingenuity. So was Boswell; his eyes showing his look of surprise. Now free, Garrett worked his way over to his partner. His first goal was to remove the gags and he maneuvered his head underneath the bed, within reach of Boswell's cuffed hands. Boswell was able to quickly pull the gag out of his partner's mouth.

"I hate that thing." Garrett coughed a bit, and tried to swallow. He then maneuvered himself out from under the bed, sat up, and removed Boswell's gag. They kept them around their necks.

Boswell began coughing and he swallowed some phlegm. "Yuck." He looked to Garrett and smiled. "You look like a fish out water. Flopping around on a boat."

"That's a nice image," Garrett whispered. "We've got to get these feet untied." That process was easier said than done. It was several more minutes before Garrett, who had more mobility, could undo the rope around Boswell's feet. He then lay down on the floor, his feet underneath the bed next to Boswell's hands. Working backwards, sight unseen, was difficult, but eventually Boswell freed Garrett's feet. He was then able to use them as leverage to lift the bed, so that Boswell could slip his hands off of the leg of the bed frame.

Sweating and breathing hard from the exertion, the two men at sat facing each other on the floor: both listening for the sound of Maria finishing her bath.

"Now what?" Garrett asked.

"See if there's anything we can use in this room to pick the lock." Boswell's eyes gazed out at the room, and settled on a fountain pen on the desk. He thought for a moment; then dismissed the idea of using the pen, as the nib was too short. "Watch the door," he whispered to Garrett, who nodded. Boswell quietly walked over to the desk. The top held nothing but the radio, Morse equipment and the pen. Turning around, he managed to open up the top drawer, which held some pencils, and to his delight, paper clips. He bent down, and attempted to grab a clip with his mouth.

_HhHhH_

Newkirk talked up a stream as he escorted George towards the docks, and then to the street that George said was home. George's head was swimming, and he paid little attention to the man who held him steady as they walked. As Newkirk passed by the café, he kept an eye out for his cohorts, whom he had left several hours ago.

Carter had been nonchalantly leaning up against a bombed out wall, keeping his eye out for his friend, when he thought he spied Newkirk and another man walking slowly down the street. He kept his excitement in check, a trait he had learned on his many missions in Germany, while at Stalag 13. He slowly walked up the street, and silently tapped Hogan on his shoulder.

The colonel turned around. "What?"

"Newkirk," Carter whispered.

"Where?"

Carter pointed.

"Don't lose 'em." Hogan took off, Carter following closely behind. Johnson, who was still with them, was on their heels. Several other men followed, while one hung back and called for back-up.

Carter caught up to Hogan. "Sir, you may want to hold back. This fellow, if he's the accomplice, he may know what you look like."

"You're right. Give me your hat."

Carter handed Hogan his hat, and the colonel put it on his head, moving it a bit forward. He then stayed a few paces back, letting Carter and Johnson take the lead.

Newkirk didn't dare look back, as he didn't want George looking as well.

"This is my street," George said.

"I won't be a good mate, would I, if I didn't make sure you were as right as rain?"

"It's okay. I can make it from here."

"I'll see you inside, and then I have to get back to me mum. She'll be worried." Newkirk replied. "But she always said, Peter. Take care of your fellow men, and the world will take care of you. Is that who is at home? Your mum? Wife?"

"Sister," George said without thinking.

"She'll be happy to see you safe and sound. I would have her take you to hospital or at least a doctor. Get that noggin checked out."

"I'll do that," George said impatiently.

The two continued down the street, and stopped at the only habitable building. Newkirk quickly glanced up and down the street, noticing the truck was missing, and that no other people were wandering around. George reached for his key, and struggled with the lock, as his hands shook.

"Let me, mate." Newkirk took the key as he thought how fate had worked in his favor that day, and opened the door.

"George, where have you been?" He heard a woman's voice coming from inside the building.

Garrett and Boswell had no chance to attempt to even straighten out the paper clip, when they heard Maria. They quickly took their places by the bed, their head hanging down. Hopefully, George or Maria wouldn't notice the gags hanging around their neck, not to mention that their feet were now untied.

Maria quickly put on a robe, grabbed the pistol she had left on the sink, and walked out of the bathroom. She quickly glanced into the bedroom, and seeing nothing amiss, walked into the living room. Her mouth hung open as she spied her brother and a complete stranger standing in the living room. Without missing a beat, she turned and shut the door to the bedroom. Fortunately, the stranger never saw the gun.

"Pardon me, miss. Me name's Peter. We were on a bus together when a bomb went off. Your brother here was hurt. He wouldn't go to hospital, but I had to make sure he made it home safely." Newkirk couldn't see into the bedroom, but if Garrett and Boswell were still alive, he was hoping that's where they were.

"I forgot the food on the bus," was all George could say, as he began to sway a bit.

"Hold on there, mate." Newkirk led the man over to the couch. "I dare say he could use a bit of tea, or something stronger if you have it. Sorry, miss. Sorry, your brother didn't give me your name."

"Roberta," Maria said. "Look. Thanks for bring him home. Let yourself out, and I'll see to my brother." She gave Peter a look that meant business. Although she hated to leave loose ends, she wouldn't hesitate to shoot this man if he made one wrong move. The man nicely paid attention and backed up to the door.

"Good luck," he said as he tipped his hat. Newkirk let himself out and began walking up the street. He checked back several times. Maria had gone to the door and was watching, so he continued walking. After making sure she was no longer looking, he ducked behind some rubble, and began making his way back to the house by using the alley way that he knew was there. As a youngster, he had been in this area many times. The alley divided George's street from another. He made it to the house, and began to look for the bedroom window.

Garrett and Boswell had heard part of the conversation, but couldn't make out all of it. They were grateful the man had left the house safely, not wanting any innocent civilian to get hurt. While their captors argued, the two Americans made another attempt to pick the handcuffs.

"Are you insane?" Maria yelled.

"You're lucky he was there. I wouldn't have made it back without him. They would have taken me away in an ambulance," George said with emphasis.

'How do you know he was who he said he was?"

"He was on the bus! Maria. For crying out loud. No one knows where we are, or who we are, for that matter. Besides he's gone. Sorry about the food," he pouted. Seeing his sister's angry face, he tried to placate her. "I would have shot him here, if he was trouble." He reached into his other pocket. Feeling around, his face turned pale. "It's not here."

"What's not there?"

"My gun."

_HhHhH_

Newkirk scaled up the small pile of debris he had made outside the bedroom window, and quickly looked inside. To his relief, he spied two live agents trying to pick their cuffs. He tried to see if the window could be opened from the outside, but had no luck. Maria and George would hear the noise of him breaking the window, so he hopped down and went back around to the front to think. Barging in with his gun might cause mayhem, as he had no idea where both of the adversaries were at the moment. They could be checking on their captives, and if George realized his gun was missing, they'd be coming back out.

The door flew open, and just in time, Newkirk backed up against the side wall." You head this way!" Maria ordered George. "Check around the house." She headed up the street.

George slowly started checking around the house, and as he moved, Newkirk circled around, staying one step ahead of the German agent. When he reached the front, he quickly headed towards the water, which was only a block away. He ducked behind a damaged ambulance that was out of commission. _Well what do you know? A game of cat and mouse. _instinctively, he reached into his pocket and his hand fell upon the loaded weapon. In case of discovery, Newkirk was ready.

_HhHhH_

"He went down this way." Carter motioned to Hogan after he saw Newkirk head down an abandoned street. It looked like there was one building standing, and that had to be where Newkirk had gone.

Johnson, Carter, and Hogan saw the door flying open. They flung themselves behind a piece of a building. Hogan quickly looked over the top to see what was happening. "It's Maria," he whispered.

"Shall we stop her?" Carter asked Hogan and Johnson. The two ex POW's looked to the detective for help. Although they had run across several hostage situations in Germany, they didn't want to step on anyone's toes in another jurisdiction.

"No," Johnson said. "We'll follow her back. The accomplice is too close. He may see us with her, and go back in and execute the hostages."

Newkirk doesn't have a gun," Hogan lamented. "But they must be on to him. Why else would they run out like that?" He wished he could see where Newkirk had gone, and if the man had gone back inside.

_HhHhH_

"What the hell happened? "Garrett said, as he and Boswell stood up and went over to the door. Boswell opened it an inch. They saw no sign of their two captors, and the front door had been left wide open.

"They went after that guy." Boswell stated. The two were mobile but not free. Running out of the house could be suicide at this point. They poked around the living room and kitchen in hopes of finding the keys to the handcuffs, but came up short.

"He's coming back," Garrett hissed. They ran back into the bedroom and shut the door. Boswell, who was better at lock picking, again tried to pick the cuffs with the paper clip.

Meanwhile, Maria headed back inside the house. She walked back into the living room and stood there with her hands on her hips, staring angrily at her brother. "Well?"

"Nothing." George sank down into the couch. "Maybe he didn't take my gun. I may have left it on the bus. Although, I can't figure out how it would have fallen out of my pocket."

"Never mind." Maria ran her fingers through her hair. "Either he has it or it doesn't. If he was after us for some reason, he would have done something by now. He's probably just a common crook. They're all over this area."

"He seemed so nice." George sighed. "He even gave his phone number to a WAAC."

"I don't care if he gave his phone number to Rita Hayworth. You should have shaken him."

"They're down one gun," Boswell whispered to Garrett. He continued to try and pick the cuffs, while Garrett kept his ear at the door. "You know, Newkirk back at Stalag 13 showed me how to do this faster. How come it was easier there?"

"No pressure," Garrett stated.

"You're such an idiot." Maria turned on her heels and went into the kitchen and poured herself a drink of water. "We still have to wait until dark." She took a drink. "I'm feeling it's about time to get out of here. Get your things. We'll have to hide out until we can get to the boat. But where?" She clapped her head in frustration. They'll be looking at the docks and the train stations."

As usual, George obeyed his sister, and walked over to the closet to grab a valise that was already packed. Meanwhile, Maria started stuffing the money, and the few canned goods left in the kitchen, into her bag. I want you to knock those two out," she ordered her brother. "We can't be too careful.

"Did you hear? We have to make a move," Boswell said. Both Garrett and Boswell stood by the door; Boswell still working to free himself.

_HhHhH_

Breathing heavily, Newkirk quietly walked back towards the hideout. He thought he spied some men at the top of the street. Squinting, he realized about six men were heading in his direction. Suddenly, a huge smile broke out on his face as he recognized several faces in the crowd.

"There's my man," Hogan said proudly as he pointed. As vehicles blocked the access at the top of the street, and other detectives, and intelligence agents spread out into the alleyways, Hogan's group began to pick up the pace.

"Hello, Colonel That's the hideout, and Garrett and Boswell are still in there." Newkirk reached into his pocket, and with a handkerchief pulled out the pistol. Here sir," he said to Johnson. "I believe this is evidence."

The Scotland Yard officer nodded. "Thanks."

"I should have your hide for going without backup," Hogan chastised Newkirk.

"Well, sir. I saw something, and I had to take action pretty quick. There was no time to say anything .I needed to follow him on the bus.

"Hey, Newkirk what was it that you saw?" Carter asked.

"He jumped the queue," Newkirk mumbled. "Maybe you'd see that in the West End with all the foreigners, there, sir. But in this neighborhood, it just didn't seem right. Anyway, we're on the bus coming back, when a bomb exploded, and George there, that's Maria's accomplice. I think he's her brother. He got hurt, and I just had to make sure he got home okay." Newkirk grinned.

_HhHhH_

George was looking around for something that he could use to knock out Boswell and Garrett. Without a word, but scowling, Maria handed him her gun. He staggered a bit on his way over to the bedroom, but regained his balance. The men inside were still nicely out of commission, making his task an easy one. George opened the door.


	12. Chapter 12

_SUSFU_

_CHAPTER 12_

George was on the other side of the door, ready to pistol whip the two agents, a prospect that did not sit well with the two intended victims. Garrett and Boswell, their hands still cuffed behind their back, had no time to think or communicate with one another. For years, they had been a team. Now, in danger, and with the distinct possibility that a dangerous German spy would likely get away with her devious plans and escape to Argentina, the two American agents acted as one. As the door opened, they both flung themselves on George's body. Stunned, George collapsed under their weight; the gun fell from his hand and rolled over to his right. Garrett immediately rolled off of George, and on top of the gun. George was bigger than Boswell, and despite his concussion, he was able to force the American agent off of his body. However, Boswell was running on adrenaline, and sent George sprawling back on the ground with a very well-placed kick to the midsection.

Hearing the commotion, Maria raced over to the bedroom, only to find George hyperventilating on the ground, holding his groin, and rocking back and forth. "Get up idiot!" All George could do was let out a small squeak. Maria, using her free hands as an advantage, grabbed the lamp off on the nightstand, and used it to stop Boswell dead in his tracks.

Garrett used the diversion to roll off of the gun and cup it in his hands. "Stop right there, Maria, or I'll shoot."

Maria turned, and saw Garrett standing over her brother. The gun was in his cuffed hands, and a finger was on the trigger. Sure, he was backwards, but at this distance he wouldn't miss. Afterwards, he would spray bullets, and it would be just her luck that she would be hit. Maria knew that if she were caught, she would surely hang. There was nothing she could do for her brother at the moment. So, she ran out of the bedroom, picked up her small suitcase, and headed for the front door.

"Nice sister." Garrett said to George. Garrett ran after Maria. George attempted to get up on his hands and knees, but failed.

"Sorry, George you're on your own!" Maria opened the door, and ran straight into the arms of Johnson, who along with another detective, was standing to the sides of the front door.

Without missing a beat, Johnson cuffed the woman. "You're under arrest," he said calmly, as if this scenario was as common as corralling a bunch of rowdy football players. Meanwhile, everyone else that was hanging around the area, including Hogan, Newkirk and Carter, poured into the house.

"Hi, Mitch." Hogan said calmly, as Garrett stared speechless at the entourage of men walking past him.

Remembering his partner, the agent held his shock for a moment, and ran back into the bedroom, jumped over George, who was crawling into the living area, and checked on Boswell, who was still unconscious on the floor.

Johnson pulled Maria back into the house. "Where are the keys to the cuffs?" Johnson asked her. She glared at the Scotland Yard officer and bit her lip, refusing to answer.

"Not to worry." Newkirk came over. "I'll have them out of those cuffs in a jiffy." He was holding a pick in his hand. "Always travel with my tools, miss. Never know when they might come in handy."

Maria spit on Newkirk's shoe.

The corporal shook his head, and entered the bedroom, where one of Johnson's men was making use of the radio to call for an ambulance, and notify headquarters of their status.

"Get up." Johnson reached over and dragged George to his feet. Wordlessly, a bobby cuffed the man's hands behind his back.

"You…you…were going to leave me here." George said to his sister.

"I had no choice."

"Ah, she speaks." Hogan, removed his hat, and walked over to Maria, and gave her a quick but thorough once-over, committing her features to memory, as seeing someone in person made a different impression than a photo.

Maria turned her attention to the man in civilian clothing. She stared for a moment, and then a spark of recognition came over her face.

"You're Colonel Hogan."

"Who?"

"Don't toy with me. I know who you are. I've been here long enough." Maria began to parrot off the vital statistics. "Colonel Robert E. Hogan. Bomb group commander, 504th. Shot down over Hamburg in 1942. General Biedenbender's squadron. Senior POW officer. Luft Stalag 13. The one near Dusseldorf, not the complex in Bavaria. Parents are still living. Two siblings. One brother, one sister. Graduated West Point. Close friends Group Captain Roberts, formerly of Churchill's staff. Now deceased. (1) Suspected link to German underground. Suspected leader sabotage ring. Possibly underground leader known as Papa Bear. I've been in contact with one of your biggest fans. A Gestapo Major Wolfgang Hochstetter."

Hogan smiled. "You're delusional, lady. But I can tell you one thing. This Roberts fellow. He's not dead. In fact, I just met him at a dinner party the other day." Hogan reached into his pants pocket and pulled out an identification card. "Inspector John Gentry. Liaison to Scotland Yard." (2)

"Pardon me, sirs. The wagon is here. And the ambulance will be here shortly."

"Thanks." Johnson nodded to the bobby.

"I need the ambulance. I have a concussion. I was in a bombing. On a bus," George complained, keeping his eyes on his sister. "It was all her idea," he added as he was led away.

"Oh shut up. You're the one who offered to just shoot them and dump them in the river." Those were Maria's final words, as she was led to the wagon.

Newkirk had quickly unlocked both sets of cuffs. Boswell had regained consciousness, but remained on the floor, and Garrett was seated on the edge of the bed. Hogan and Carter, as well as Johnson joined them, while other men started sealing off the building, and began a thorough search of the premises.

Carter cleared his throat. "I'm sure you're both wondering why we are all gathered here today."

"Blimey, Carter. Enough with the Sherlock Holmes stuff."

Carter chuckled. "Sorry."

"I guess I should say, welcome home. Everyone make it out?" Garrett looked at Hogan.

"All safe and sound."

"Good. Then, what the hell are you doing here?"

"This can't be a coincidence," Boswell added as he rubbed the back of his head.

"Actually it was. I had just walked into OSS for the first of what will most likely be too many meetings. They told me that you both had just been reported missing."

"That doesn't explain why you three are here."

"I'll take it." Koosman walked through the door. "Just pulled up. Got the call from one of your men," he nodded at Johnson. "I was already on the road, so I got over here pretty quickly. You both okay?" he asked concerned.

"We'll live." Boswell answered, and then sneezed. Happy to have his hands back, he gratefully pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

"You need some chicken soup." Newkirk announced.

Koosman continued. "Maria was good, but she overlooked one small thing. She left a receipt in a book we found in her apartment. It was from a pub near here. So we concentrated on this area. Corporal Newkirk was from this area, and Hogan and his men offered to help with the search. We were spread out all over, so we accepted. And from what I've been told, it was Newkirk that followed George onto a bus, and then back here."

"I thought I had heard that voice from somewhere. Except with a bit of a different accent." Garrett stood up and shook Newkirk's hand. He then did the same for Hogan and Carter. "Where's the rest of your crew?"

* * *

><p>The rest of Hogan's core group was taking a break from the paperwork. Kinch and now LeBeau were enjoying a cup of tea with Colonel Wembley, and several of his assistants at their operational London headquarters. Wembley was regaling them with the full story of Hochstetter's flight, capture, and interrogation.<p>

"So we decided not to tell Hogan everything about the paperwork, and Hochstetter's file, when we reached him at OSS headquarters. We left a lot out. Didn't want to upset the old boy, seeing as you all just got out of Germany." Wembley reached for a biscuit, and dipped it into the liquid.

"That would be just awful," a lieutenant chimed in. She had often spoken with the men at Stalag 13, often taking down messages, and requests for supplies.

"He's a big boy, ma'am. I think he could take it." Kinch smiled at the officer, thinking that she was much prettier than she sounded.

LeBeau was about to second Kinch's sentiment when the phone rang. "Lieutenant Dyer. (3) Yes, I see. Well that is good news. Thank you." The lieutenant put down the receiver. "That was the OSS. Your two friends are safe, and the spies are in custody."

"I'm glad that's over with," Wembley stated. "Now we can get on to more important matters. More tea?" he asked LeBeau and Kinch.

* * *

><p>Over their objections, Garrett and Boswell were loaded into the ambulance. As they got settled, Hogan updated them on their liberation, and the rest of the prison population.<p>

"Olsen stayed in Germany. There's a few things he needs to wrap up for us. Plus he has family there, and a fiancée. (2) Kinch was at special ops working on paperwork, and I think that's where LeBeau headed after we separated earlier today. Otherwise, everyone else is still at Camp Lucky Strike, waiting to be processed. And as far as I know, the Germans were sent to another location. I'll find out more once I get back to special ops. And I have to meet with Butler."

"We need to have a meeting. And I owe you a beer." (4) Boswell stated as he settled down on the stretcher.

"You're on." Hogan shut the door to the back of the ambulance. "Fellas," he said to Newkirk and Carter. "I don't know about you, but I'm dog-tired. I'm going back to my quarters. Consider yourselves off-duty until tomorrow morning."

"Thanks, Colonel," Carter said.

"I'll give you all a lift." Johnson said. "Everything is under control here."

"No thanks," Newkirk turned down Johnson's offer. "I'm heading back up to Evelyn Court. What time do you need me tomorrow morning, sir?"

Hogan thought for a bit. "We have to reschedule everything. How's 0800. sound?"

"Better than roll call, Colonel. Andrew?"

"I'm turning in my detective hat, and heading back. I have some sewing to do."

Newkirk looked at Carter with a quizzical expression. "You hate sewing."

"My lieutenant bars."

"Darn. Does that mean I have to start saluting you? After all this time?"

"Only when in the company of other military personnel, Newkirk. Other than that, we're just buddies. Okay?"

* * *

><p>In the back of the ambulance, tended to by a very attractive nurse, Boswell and Garrett relaxed for the first time in a few days.<p>

"How's your head?" Garrett asked.

"Been better. Although the lamp may have cleared my sinuses a bit."

Garrett nodded. "That's the way to see the positive in a bad situation. What are the odds? What are the odds?"

"You're repeating yourself." Boswell grimaced a bit, and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

"Stay awake, Mr. Boswell." The nurse gently shook his shoulder.

"I swear there is something about Stalag 13 and Rob Hogan that keeps coming back to haunt us. It's almost surreal."

"Supernatural." Boswell added. "Or maybe it's physics. Two magnetic personalities. That would be us. Attracting a less magnetic, although competent, personality. It's meant to be. Opposites attract. And don't ever tell him that I said that. Deal?"

"Deal."

* * *

><p>(1) "A Funny Thing Happened on the way to London" of course, we all know Roberts is alive. After all, Hogan met him at the beginning of the story. Hochstetter was probably too embarassed to admit that he and Klink let the real Roberts escape back to England. Chances are, the fake one went on a one-way trip to the Eastern Front.<p>

(2) still using the 1969 Mets for names. Gary Gentry was one of their pitchers.

(3) Duffy Dyer. Catcher, 69 Mets.

(4) Boswell offered to buy Hogan a beer after the war in my second Boswell and Garrett story, FUBAR.


	13. Chapter 13

_SUSFU_

_Chapter 13_

"Well, Major. It looks like we have come full circle." Intelligence officer James Grote stared at Hochstetter, figuring he would get no response. As usual, the Gestapo officer stared back at the intelligence officer. This was the game they had played for the last several days. "I see as usual, the cat has your tongue. So let me give it to you straight. Your cooperation has not been forthcoming. Your excuses have not been believed. And what little information you have given has been useless. So unless you have anything else to give me, in say, the next hour, we are having you transferred back to a prison camp in Germany to await trial for war crimes. Luckily, you were found in American territory. "Grote laughed. "I guess if you had been stupid and fled east, your fate would be much different."

Hochstetter inwardly shuddered at the thought of dealing with the Russians, as Grote continued. "I see you have calmed down a bit, since your last visit with the doctor."

Hochstetter shrugged.

"Your fetish concerning our Allied officer and his supposed shenanigans have disappeared, I take it?"

"I suppose." _Until I escape, track him down, and make him pay for this humiliation._

_HhHhH_

"He's lying."

"Are you sure?"

"I pretty much learned to read his moods and tone. His eyes. Call it survival." Hogan poked Wembley on the arm. "Look at his fingers." Hochstetter's right thumb was stroking his right index finger. "It's a nervous habit."

"He could read him like a book, sir," Carter said to Wembley.

"No doubt, Lieutenant."

Wembley went over to the phone, while Hogan continued watching the interrogation through the one-way mirror. He saw Grote pick up the receiver; listen for a moment and then put it down. Thinking back to his previous meeting with Wembley and Grote, just a short time ago, he let out a small smile. After the rescue of Boswell and Garrett, and a good night's sleep, Kinch had contacted him and requested that Hogan, Carter and Newkirk attend an urgent meeting at operation headquarters.

_Hogan was asked to take a seat upon entering the conference room_._He noticed Wembley's hand clasped around a rather thick file_.

"_We wanted to wait to show you this until after your meeting to with the prime minister, but due to war matters, that meeting has been delayed," Wembley told Hogan._

"_Hochstetter's file." Hogan realized being told to sit down was not a good sign. He looked at Kinch and LeBeau. Both showed no emotion, and gave no sign of what was in the large file Wembley pushed over to him. _

"_Take it easy, sir," Kinch whispered. _

"_I take it Carter and Newkirk can look at this?" Hogan asked, making the assumption that Kinch and LeBeau were already familiar with the contents._

_Wembley nodded._

_The top of the file gave no indication of what was inside. Hogan, with Carter and Newkirk looking over his shoulder, opened up the file and began to read. _

_He did not have a heart attack. In fact, Hogan was relieved that he had not been pulled in to hear that Hochstetter had killed or captured more of the underground members working around Stalag 13. "It's a good thing your full report comes first. " he said several minutes later. Letting out a deep breath, he shut the file. He was awfully close."  
><em>

"_Blimey," was all Newkirk could say, while Carter sat down, and remained speechless._

"_Well, chaps. You took it much better than I thought you would." Without a word, Wembley picked up the file. "Tea?"_

"_I think I need something a lot stronger," Hogan replied._

Hogan chuckled as he recalled the normally unflappable Wembley call for the nearest bottle of liquid that packed a punch.

"Very well." Grote shut the file folder. "Guard, take him back to his cell. Oh, and Hochstetter, try to recall any names of interest in the next hour. I don't think you will find your return to your country very pleasant. We can't guarantee anyone's safety until your leaders offer a total surrender."

"Is that a threat?"

"No. Of course not. We are more civilized than that. Our people are also at risk. Remember that." As the stenographer packed up her equipment and the recording stopped, Grote left the interrogation area, and entered the room where Hogan, Wembley, and Hogan's core team waited to see what their nemesis had to say.

"What's next?" Hogan asked Grote.

"He's as tight as a clam shell. But we do have one more ace up our sleeve. I didn't wish to get him involved, however."

"I think he might want to have a go, sir. After all, he could have been killed. Have you approached him?" Newkirk asked the intelligence officer.

"Most definitely," Wembley answered for Grote. "And he is willing; and he has the go-ahead from above."

"Let's do it," Grote decided. "Oh, I wanted to let you know that George Shamsky has been an absolute chatterbox. Seems he and his sister have had a falling out."

"Bien sur. She abandoned him." LeBeau shook his head. "I would never abandon my brothers or sister. We are family."

"That's right, Louis." Newkirk thought of his sister at that moment.

"Sure like to know how Maria got through the fail-safes and made it to the OSS," Kinch said. "Especially since all the other agents in Britain were caught and turned." (1)

"That may take a while. At least she was a sleeper, and thank goodness she wasn't assigned to translate anything top secret. I'm sure some heads will roll," Grote said as he smiled.

_HhHhH_

Hochstetter sat in his cell, sulking. Occasionally, a new prisoner would walk by; however, no one spoke to him, or with him. A nearby female prisoner spoke a few German words; she was obviously agitated and angry, but she was quickly told to be quiet, and so he was never able to discover who she was or why she was there. A German speaking attorney came by for a moment, only to inform Hochstetter that after his transfer, he would be assigned counsel, something the Gestapo agent should be grateful for, considering the political victims of the Nazi regime never had a fair trial.

After about forty-five minutes, a guard approached Hochstetter's cell, and escorted him out. "It's early."

"You're not leaving yet. Taking you back to interrogation. Seems you have a visitor."

At this, Hochstetter raised his eyebrows. "Who?"

"Don't know, don't care." The guard saw Hochstetter to the interrogation room, and shackled him to the table. He then stood at attention by the closed door.

Hochstetter was facing the back wall, and could not see who entered the room when the door opened. When the visitor's face came into view, he tried to rise in shock, but the shackles kept him down. "You!" he cried in frustration.

"Hello, Hochstetter." Group Captain James Roberts took the seat opposite the major, and offered a pleasant smile. "I see you have been treated very well. More so than you deserve, I might add." He leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs.

"Hogan got you out. He knew all along. Didn't he?" Hochstetter sneered at the British officer.

"Actually, you are correct."

"Ha! I knew it. He had everyone on his side. Klink, Burkhalter. He was…"

"Hold on there, Hochstetter. You are getting ahead of yourself. Klink on his side?" Roberts laughed. "That fool? Although to give the man credit, he was good at his job. Too good. Did you know that there was never a successful escape from Stalag 13? Except for myself, of course. But, I doubt that was reported."

Hochstetter's face turned red.

"Sorry, of course you did. Klink must have been insufferable. What an ego. But I digress. Let me tell you the facts. My good friend of many years, Robert Hogan, immediately ascertained that your agent was an imposter. Do you really think that looks and the proper tone of voice are everything? I will let you in on a secret. If you do not want a prisoner to get suspicious, don't make it obvious that their voice is being recorded, and that their face is being photographed from all angles. I told Hogan about my interrogations after I was captured. But you should recall that part of our conversation. The room was bugged. Any fool would have checked for listening devices. Hogan is very astute. And he would also know that any prisoner would be patted down. The wire cutters would have been discovered. Bauman gave himself away. Of course, even without knowing about the recordings and photographs, Hogan would have been suspicious, once Bauman and he interacted for more than a few moments." Roberts shook his head, and then lit a cigarette.

_Of course. And Hogan is no fool._ "You were taken to the cooler."

"To await a very unpleasant fate, I assumed. If you are planning on posing as someone, and the goal is to assassinate the prime minister, don't tell the prisoner the plans. You laid it all out there. Of course, by then, I knew I had to somehow stop this, even if it cost me my life. Hogan didn't know why I was being replaced, but he knew it had to be for some heinous act. Oh, and by the way, you had guards escort me to the cooler. Did you honestly think no one would notice? How did you get to be in charge of the Gestapo office, by the way? Very sloppy on your part. Yes, indeed. A few prisoners noticed. And the guards posted outside the cooler made it way too obvious. All it took was for one of the prisoners to bribe some guards, and out I went. Right over to Hogan's barracks. And that's how I made it out. I was now the imposter who was supposed to escape, so I just went under the wire. It was as easy as taking candy from a baby. Or giving candy to that fat guard, what was his name?"

"Schultz." Hochstetter began to sweat.

"Yes. I wanted to show you that I made it back to England safe and sound."

"I already had guessed that," Hochstetter sneered.

"Yes, well. So what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I say nothing. I did it for the fuehrer." Hochstetter gave Roberts a defiant look.

"You were captured and are being charged as a chief of a local Gestapo office. Add to that, aiding and abetting an assassination plot. Conspiracy to commit murder of the head of the British government, conspiracy to commit murder against a prisoner of war. That would be yours truly. Violation of multiple acts of the Geneva convention."

"I didn't come up with the plot. I just provided the final transport." Hochstetter knew when he was defeated.

"Ah." Roberts leaned forward. "Perhaps we can reduce some of these charges. Just let us know who was involved in the planning and execution."

"Well, Klink was involved. He knew very well what was in store for you."

This threw Roberts. Hogan and those watching the interrogation were also floored by Hochstetter's accusation.

"This was true." Grote made a statement, not a question. He had read Roberts' full report, as had Wembley, who had also interviewed Roberts on his return.

"Hochstetter, Klink was so terrified of the Gestapo that he would have thrown his own mother under the bus." This was Roberts counterattack. "Klink is not here in custody at the moment. He is in a POW camp. I am sure the authorities will take care of him, and they will take a careful look at Colonel Hogan's debriefing. This is your neck, as the expression says."

"Good save." Hogan gave his friend a thumbs up, although he knew Roberts could not see it through the wall.

"Your call, Hochstetter. I'm getting impatient."

Hochstetter's act of defiance came to a sudden an ignominious end. "Himmler. It came out of his office."

"You're willing to talk?" Roberts asked. "Give us the names of everyone. The plastic surgeon, the interrogators, the men who worked with Himmler on the plot."

Hochstetter nodded.

"Very well. I'll call in Mr. Grote Oh. I do have regards for you from Colonel Hogan. I spoke with him over the phone. He's doing well, as are the rest of the prisoners. He did say to tell you that it was time to stop chasing after windmills."

Hochstetter looked up from the table and watched Roberts leave the room. He then took a deep breath and sighed.

_HhHhH_

"Robbie." Hogan held out his hand to his friend, and offered his friend an enthusiastic handshake. "Thanks for not spilling the beans."

"It wasn't easy." Roberts faced Hogan's men. "Good to see you all again, especially in better circumstances." He nodded at Grote, who left the room and entered the interrogation area. "Are you sure you don't want to pay our star prisoner a visit? It might do something for his morale," he said, half-joking.

"Ruin it, I think." Hogan answered. "Actually, I haven't received the okay from the boss. So for now, Hochstetter can think what he wants. Like you said, you spoke with me on the phone, and I'm still in France."

"Your friends are all right, I take it?"

"No lasting harm done. They're taking some time off and resting in their flat. You know, I hope that Hochstetter eventually gets what he deserves. He's responsible for killing and torturing members of the underground. I'm not too comfortable with bargaining for names. There's no guarantee they'll catch these people."

"That's true," Roberts agreed. "But, he'll have his day in court. That's the best we can do. By the way, whatever happened to Bauman? I figured that somehow you would have managed to apprehend him and send him back to London."

"Actually, that was the plan. But he was a fanatic that was willing to go on a suicide mission. After he realized he had failed, he took a cyanide capsule. He had no future."

"That's good. I would have hated the thought of someone that looks like me still running around. Could make for some awkward conversations." Roberts looked at his watch. "I have to run. I'll try and reschedule the meeting with the prime minister but I can't promise anything at this point."

"That's all right, sir. He must be busy." Carter said.

"Not that we can tell our families about it anyway," Newkirk said, although he looked a bit disappointed.

"One day, Newkirk. One day. C'mon." Hogan said. "I'll buy you all a beer."

* * *

><p>(1) German attempts to infiltrate Britain with spies was unsuccessful. The BBC website has an interesting article on how many German spies were caught and turned into double agents.<p>

the backstory in this chapter comes from "A Funny Thing Happened on the way to London." I added some details to make the episode more plausible.

This is the end of this part of the continuing adventures of OSS agents Todd Boswell and Mitch Garrett. Due to popular demand, an epilogue will be published shortly. I would like to thank all those readers and reviewers who, due to their reaction to "SNAFU," and their words of encouragement, prompted me to continue this series. I have grown very fond of my two OC's, and enjoyed coming up with new ways to have them interact with, and (sometimes) annoy Colonel Hogan.


End file.
